Читать книгу The Collaborators - Reginald Hill - Страница 18

In October, a census of Jews was announced. They were required to report in alphabetical order to their local police station. When Janine expressed unease, Sophie laughed and said, ‘It’s our own French police I shall see, not the Germans. In any case, would the Marshal have met with Herr Hitler and shaken his hand if there was need to worry?’

Janine too had taken comfort from the meeting at Montoire. If things were getting back to normal, surely prisoners must soon be released? He wasn’t dead…he couldn’t be dead…

At the police station there was a long queue. When she reached its head, Sophie filled in her registration form with great care. Only at the Next of Kin section did she hesitate. Something made her look over her shoulder. Behind her, winding around the station vestibule and out of the door, stretched the queue. Conversation was low; most didn’t speak at all, but stood with expressions of stolid resignation, every now and then shuffling forward to whatever fate officialdom had devised for them.

‘Come on, old lady,’ said a gendarme. ‘What’s the hold-up?’

She put a stroke of the pen through Next of Kin.

‘What? No family?’

‘A son. Until the war.’

‘I’m sorry. Thank God it’s all over for the rest of us. Now sign your name and be on your way.’

It felt good to be out in the street again and her confidence rapidly returned as she walked home as briskly as her rheumatic knee permitted.

As she reached the apartment building, Maurice Melchior emerged, resplendent in a long astrakhan coat which he’d been given by accident from the cloakroom at the Comédie-Française the previous winter and at last felt safe in wearing.

‘Good day, Madame Simonian. And how are you? Taking the air?’

Piqued at being accused of such unproductive activity, Sophie said sharply, ‘No, monsieur. I’ve been to register.’

‘Register?’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘How quaint! Good day, madame!’

Melchior set off at a brisk pace, eager to put as much distance as possible between himself and this silly old Jewess who’d gone voluntarily to put her name on an official census-list. How desperate people were to convince themselves that everything was normal. Normal! All they had to do was stroll along the boulevards and look in the shop windows. Everything had gone. Ration coupons had been introduced the previous month. And the forecast was for a long, hard winter. The only people who had any cause for complacency were the black-marketeers.

I must make some contacts, thought Melchior. But not today. Today he had more immediate and personal worries.

Bruno was close to dumping him, that was the brutal truth. A couple of nights earlier they’d visited the Deux Magots where Melchior, rather full of Bruno’s excellent brandy, had spotted Cocteau in a corner.

‘Do I know him? Blood-brothers, dear boy! Of course I’ll introduce you.’ And he’d set off across the room, big smile, outstretched hand, with Bruno in close formation. The Great Man (pretentious shit!) had thrust an empty bottle into the outstretched hand and said, ‘Another of the same, waiter. A bit colder this time,’ and all his arse-licking cronies had set up a jeering bray.

Zeller turned on his heel and stormed out of the door. By the time Melchior got out, he was in his car. The engine drowned Maurice’s attempts at explanation and apology, and as he grasped the door handle, the car accelerated away, pulling him to his knees in the gutter.

Perhaps it was the supplicatory pose; or perhaps Zeller was reminded of the circumstances of their first meeting. He stopped the car, reversed and opened the door.

‘Get in,’ he said.

They drove away at high speed up the Rue de Rennes and turned into the Boulevard Raspail.

‘Are we going to the Lutétia?’ asked Melchior.

‘Yes.’

Melchior relapsed into a nervous silence. Once before he had suggested provocatively that Bruno should take him to dine at the Lutétia. The German had said coldly, ‘The only Frenchmen who come into Abwehr Headquarters are agents or prisoners. It can be arranged.’

Now Melchior recalled that moment and shivered.

The trouble was things hadn’t been going well for some weeks. As life returned to something like normal it had grown increasingly difficult to maintain his claim to be at the artistic heart of things. Name-dropping was only successful if the names dropped kept a decent distance from the city. But many had returned, and even when they were polite, they made it very clear they were not intimate with him. Usually he was able to bluff it out but a snub like tonight’s was too unambiguous for bluff.

They entered the hotel by a side-door. It was clear he wasn’t going to see the public rooms. ‘Who’s duty officer?’ Zeller demanded of an armed corporal.

‘Lieutenant Mai, sir.’

‘Fetch him.’

When Günter Mai arrived, annoyed at having been dragged from his dinner, he recognized Melchior instantly but concealed the fact. His superior’s sexual impulses were his own affair as long as they didn’t compromise the section’s security. As soon as the inevitable happened and Zeller found himself a ‘friend’, Mai had done a thorough check. In the light of official Party attitudes to Jews and perverts, Maurice Melchior was not an ideal companion for a German officer. But it was clear he hadn’t a political thought in his head. Motivated entirely by hedonistic self-interest, conceited, cowardly, the little queer posed no security risk at all. But what on earth was he doing here?

‘This is Monsieur Melchior,’ said Zeller. ‘I’ll be interviewing him immediately. Is there a room?’

‘Of course, sir,’ said Mai. ‘This way.’

In the sparsely furnished room, Zeller waited till Mai had closed the door behind him, then said, ‘Let’s talk seriously, Maurice.’

‘Delighted. But why have you brought me here?’

‘So you’ll understand quite clearly what I’m saying to you,’ said Zeller softly. ‘Maurice, you haven’t been honest with me, have you? You’ve been a naughty boy.’

‘Always willing to oblige,’ laughed Melchior.

‘Shut up! It seems that far from being the celebrity you claim, you’re a nobody. Worse, you’re a bit of a laughing stock. That’s your bad luck, but by your idiocy, you’ve got me involved in it too. I don’t care to be made to look ridiculous, Maurice. Getting mixed up with you was a mistake. Some people can forget mistakes. I can’t. I need to correct them.’

‘What do you mean, Bruno?’ demanded Melchior nervously.

‘You’re going to have to start earning your keep,’ said Zeller spitefully. ‘As a cultural guide, you’re a dead loss. As a sexual partner, you have your moments, but frankly, with the exchange rate the way it is, I can afford troupes of prettier, younger, more athletic friends than you, and there’s no shortage of offers. So that leaves only one avenue.’

‘What’s that, Bruno?’ asked Melchior, his mouth dry.

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‘When we first met, you asked if I was going to make an agent out of you. Like you, I took it as a joke. But by Christ, Maurice, the joking time is over. Those big ears and sharp eyes of yours must be good for something. From now on, if you want protection - and the alternative, let me assure you, is persecution - you’re going to earn your keep. Do you understand me?’

Hell hath no fury like a German officer made to feel ridiculous, thought Günter Mai who was listening in the next room. But trying to make an agent out of a creature like Melchior, that really was ridiculous. There could be trouble there. Should he try to warn Zeller? He thought not. It would mean admitting his knowledge. And Zeller probably wouldn’t listen. Besides, he thought with a smile, a bit of trouble wouldn’t do that gilded youth any harm at all.

A not unkind man, Günter Mai might have been rather more concerned, though not much, if he could have shared Melchior’s growing panic as October turned to November and Zeller’s threats became more and more dire. He tried to explain how terribly difficult it was for someone like himself to become an agent. He was more than willing to oblige, dear Bruno must believe that, but the kind of gossip he was so expert at collecting was not, alas, the kind which held much interest for the guardians of military security.

But at last a break had come. There were rumours everywhere that, angered by the complacent acceptance by their elders of the German Occupation, the university students were planning some kind of demonstration on November 11th, armistice day. Melchior spent all his spare time in the cafés on the Boul’ Miche where once he had sought the occasional pick-up. The youngsters were happy enough to let him pay for their drinks, but laughed behind his back at his efforts to draw them. Did someone who had so shamelessly flaunted his Aryan nancy-boy really believe they were going to spill their plans for a few cups of coffee?

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But there were others who noticed and did not discount his efforts so scornfully.

On November 10th, he was sitting disconsolately in the café where he’d taken Bruno after their first meeting. The owner no longer greeted him by name now his usual clientele were back, and not even free coffee seemed able to buy him company today. As one student had explained, thinking to be kind, ‘You’ve grown so dull, Maurice, since you stopped trying to screw us.’

He rose and left. As he walked along the rain-polished pavement observing with distaste the spattering of his mirror-like shoes, footsteps came hurrying after him. He looked round to see a youngster he knew as Émile approaching. He was a pale, sick-looking boy, and shabby even by student standards. When he caught up, he glanced behind him furtively, then drew Maurice off the boulevard into a doorway.

‘Monsieur,’ he said. ‘I need money.’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Melchior. ‘A couple of francs is all I have…’

‘I need a thousand. Five hundred at the very least.’

Melchior looked at him sharply. This was obviously no ordinary touch.

He said, ‘Even if I had such a sum, which I don’t, why should I loan it to you?’

‘Not loan. Pay. Look, monsieur, everyone knows you’re very interested in the plans for our demo tomorrow. Well, I can tell you it’s not going to wait till tomorrow. Come midnight tonight, and you’ll be able to see to read, if you’re in the right places. I know those places.’

‘But that’ll mean breaking the curfew.’

‘It’s not the only thing that will be broken,’ said Émile. ‘Come on. Are you in the market or not?’

‘Why are you doing this?’ asked Melchior.

‘Because if I don’t, I’ll be flung off my course by the weekend, if I don’t get flung off a bridge first by the people I owe money to.’

These were reasons Melchior could understand. He said, ‘I’d need proof.’

‘For God’s sake, what’s proof? I’ve got a copy of the plan with timings and locations, if that’s what you mean.’

‘I’ll tell you what,’ said Melchior who despite everything was quite enjoying getting into his role. ‘You give me the plan. If it works out, I’ll pay you five hundred francs tomorrow.’

‘Go and screw yourself, you little fairy,’ said Émile angrily. ‘You don’t imagine I’m going to trust someone like you!’

Melchior smiled, unhurt, and said significantly, ‘It wouldn’t be me you were trusting, Émile. Your payment would be guaranteed, believe me.’

The youngster weighed this up. Strange, thought Melchior. He knows I mean the Germans and he’ll doubtless end up by deciding he can trust them more than he’d trust me.

He was right.

‘OK,’ said the student reluctantly. ‘Payment tomorrow morning, nine sharp, the Tuileries Gardens, by the Orangerie. And it’ll be the full thousand for extended credit, all right?’

‘Agreed,’ said Melchior, holding out his hand.

A folded sheet of paper was put into it, then Émile turned on his heel and hurried away into the gathering dusk.

Melchior walked along, studying the paper. There were going to be torchlight processions starting in the Place de la Bastille at 11.30. And once the authorities’ attention had been concentrated on the processions, the Embassy, in the Rue de Lille, and the Hôtel de Ville were going to be the objects of the main demos at midnight. Melchior practically danced along the pavement in his elation. No hint of such early activity had emerged hitherto. This would be a real coup for Bruno. Surely he must show his gratitude by restoring their relationship?

But now as quickly as it had come, his joy faded as a sense of revulsion swept over him. What the hell was he doing? Giving this to Bruno meant hundreds of youngsters could be walking into a trap. And the Boche wouldn’t be gentle, that was sure. No! He wouldn’t do it. Bruno could go jump in the Seine!

He walked on, feeling incredibly noble.

Then he heard the sound of breaking glass. He turned a corner and saw a tobacconist’s with its window shattered. Pasted on the door was a now familiar sign saying JEWISH BUSINESS. Two youths with the armbands of the Parti Populaire Français were standing laughing on the pavement. They fell silent as he walked past. Then he heard their footsteps coming after him. Faster and faster he walked till he was almost running.

Finally, exhausted by effort and fear, he stopped and turned.

He was alone. But he had left his feeling of nobility far behind.