Читать книгу The Collaborators - Reginald Hill - Страница 23

It was an April evening, but the wind that met Christian Valois head on as he cycled back to the family apartment in Passy was full of sleet. He carried his bike up the stairs and into the apartment with him. Cars had practically vanished from the streets. There was little petrol to be had and, in any case, you needed a special Ausweis from the Germans to use one, so bikes were now pricey enough to attract the professional thief.

As he took off his sodden coat, the phone rang.

The line was poor and the female voice at the other end was faint and intermittent.

‘Hello! Hello! I can’t hear you. Who is that?’

Suddenly the interference went and the voice came loud and clear.

‘It’s me, your sister, idiot!’

‘Marie-Rose! Hello. How are you?’

‘I’m fine. Listen, quickly, in case we get cut off. Are you coming down this weekend? Please, you must, it’s my birthday, or had you forgotten?’

She was seventeen on Saturday. Seventeen. A good age, even in awful times. But could he bear to go to Vichy? His parents had urged him frequently to join them, or at least to come for a visit. So far he had refused. But Marie-Rose’s birthday was different. Despite her youthful impertinence his sister adored him and he was very fond of her.

He said, ‘I don’t know. The weather, it’s so awful…’

‘Damn the weather! Please, please, it won’t be the same without you.’

‘I’ll see,’ he said. ‘I won’t promise but I’ll see.’

Shortly afterwards they were cut off.

The next morning, spring finally exploded with all the violence of energy too long restrained. On the Friday afternoon, he caught the train to Vichy.

At the crossing point into the Free Zone, they were all ordered out to have their papers checked. Valois had had no difficulty in getting an Ausweis. When your father was a Vichy deputy and you were a respectable civil servant, you were regarded as quite safe, he thought moodily.

Not everyone was as lucky. Somewhere along the platform an argument had broken out. Voices were raised, German and French. Suddenly a middle-aged man in a dark business suit broke away from a group of German soldiers, ran a little way down the platform, then scrambled beneath the train.

Valois jumped into the nearest carriage to look out of the further window. The man was on his feet again, running across the tracks. He was no athlete and he was already labouring. A voice cried, ‘Halt!’ He kept going. A gun rattled twice. He flung up his arms and fell.

He wasn’t dead, but hit in the leg. Two soldiers ran up to him and pulled him upright. He screamed every time his injured leg touched the ground as he half-hopped and was half-dragged the length of the train to bring him back round to the platform.

Valois turned furiously from the window and made for the platform door. There was a man sitting in the compartment who must have got back in after him.

He said, ‘I shouldn’t bother.’

Valois paused, realizing he recognized the man.

‘I’m sorry? It’s Maître Delaplanche, isn’t it?’

‘You recognize me?’

The lawyer’s face, which was the living proof of his Breton peasant ancestry, screwed up in mock alarm.

‘You’re often in the papers, and I attended several meetings you spoke at when I was a student.’

‘Did you? Ah yes. I seem to recall you now.’ Face screwed up again in an effort of recollection as unconvincing as his alarm. ‘Valois, isn’t it? Christian Valois. Of course. I knew your father when he practised, before politics took him over.’

Delaplanche was well known in legal circles as a pleader of underdog causes. Whenever an individual challenged the State, his opinion if not his counsel would be sought. He had spoken on a variety of socialist platforms but always refused to put the weight of his reputation behind any programme except in his own words, ‘the quest for justice’.

‘Nice to meet you,’ said Valois. ‘Excuse me.’

‘I shouldn’t bother,’ repeated the lawyer as Valois opened the door on to the platform. ‘I presume you’re going to make a fuss about the chap they’ve just shot? I’ll tell you his story. His papers were obviously forged. He made a run for it and got shot. He’ll turn out to be a blackmarketeer, or an unregistered Jew, or perhaps even an enemy agent. All you’ll do is draw attention to yourself and get either yourself or, worse still, the whole train delayed here a lot longer.’

‘That’s bloody cynical!’ snapped Valois. ‘I thought you were famous for fighting the underdog’s battles.’

‘Against the law, not against an army,’ said Delaplanche. ‘Against an army, all the underdog armed with the law does is get fucked!’

He smiled with the complacency of one who was famous for his earthy courtroom language. On the platform German voices were commanding the passengers back on to the train. Delaplanche picked up a newspaper and began reading it. Feeling defeated, Valois stepped down on to the platform but only to return to his own compartment.

His gloom lasted till the train pulled into the station at Vichy, but lifted at the sight of his sister, long black hair streaming behind her, running down the platform to greet him.

They embraced. Since he last saw her she’d become a young woman and a very beautiful one. She tucked her arm through his in delight and led him to where their mother was waiting.

‘Where’s father?’ asked Valois as they approached.

‘Busy. He sends his apologies.’

‘No. I understand. Without his constant efforts, the country would be ground down under the conqueror’s heel.’

‘Shut up and behave! I don’t want my birthday spoilt!’

He just about managed to obey the injunction, but there were difficult moments. Vichy disgusted him with its opulent façades all draped with tricolours. Everywhere he looked, red, white and blue, like make-up on a leprous face. He preferred the stark truth of those swastikas he could see from his office window flapping lazily over the arcades of the Rue de Rivoli. The people, most of them, were the same. ‘Like characters on a film set,’ he told his sister. ‘Or worse. Vichy is like a folk-tale village in a pop-up book. Only a child thinks it’s really magic.’

‘I agree,’ said Marie-Rose. ‘It’s so boring here. That’s why I want to come back to Paris with you!’

He looked at her in alarm. This was the first he’d heard of this idea and the more he thought about it, the less he liked it. In Paris, by himself, his decisions only concerned himself; it was a time of danger and it would get worse.

He tried to explain this to Marie-Rose and they quarrelled. But by way of compensation, he found an area of common ground with his father who was absolutely opposed to any such move.

Indeed he and his father kept the peace till the time came to part. His mother presented him with a bag full of ‘goodies’ and his father with a piece of paper.

‘It’s a permit to use the car, the Renault. I’ll want to use it myself whenever I come to Paris and it’s absurd for it to stand in the garage all the time, so I got a permit for you too.’

His instinct was to tear the paper in half and it showed on his face.

‘What’s the matter?’

‘Father, have you any idea what it’s like in Paris? The kind of people who’re still driving around in cars, well, they’re not the kind of people I want to be associated with. There’s still a war on, father, believe me!’

‘No, there’s an armistice on, you’d better believe me!’ snapped Léon Valois. ‘Face up to reality, even if you don’t like it. The facts are that the Germans are in control and likely to stay that way. With or without us, they’ll rule. Without us…well, I dread to think how it might be. With us, we can restrain, influence, perhaps eventually control! They’re a rigid race, good for soldiering, poor for politics. Believe me, Christian, my way’s the only way to build a future for France!’

He spoke with passionate sincerity but there was no place for them to meet. The one good thing about their quarrel was that it reunited him with his sister just as their row had temporarily brought him closer to his parents. She kissed him tenderly at parting and asked, ‘Is it really so awful under the Boche? I worry about you.’

‘Oh it’s not so bad really,’ he assured her.

‘No? Well, no matter what you say, one day I’ll surprise you and come and see for myself!’

She grinned in a most unseventeen-like way and hugged him once more with a childish lack of restraint before he got on the train.

He leaned out of the window and waved as long as he could see her on the platform. As he turned to sit down, the compartment door opened.

‘We meet again,’ said Delaplanche. ‘How was your trip? What did you think of Vichy?’

His eyes glanced at Madame Valois’s bagful of expensive cans, as if he were reading the labels through the cloth, and when they returned to Valois, he felt as if the man could see through to the car permit in his pocket.

‘I’ll tell you what I thought of Vichy,’ he said savagely.

Delaplanche listened in silence. Finished at last, Valois waited for approval.

‘I hope you’re not always so indiscreet,’ was all the lawyer said. ‘Especially with strangers.’

‘Strangers? But…’

‘What do you know of me?’

‘I know your reputation. I’ve read about, listened to you. I know you’re a man of the people, a socialist, some even say a…’

‘Communist? Yes, some do say that. Of course, if I were a communist, that would put me in the German camp, wouldn’t it?’

‘No! On the contrary…’

‘But Russia and Germany have a non-aggression pact.’

‘Yes, but that hardly means the communists support the Nazis!’

‘No. But wasn’t it enough to stop you from joining the communists just when you were teetering on the edge?’

The paper went up again. And the rest of the journey passed in silence, with the lawyer reading and Valois brooding on the man’s apparent detailed knowledge of his own background.

Their farewells in Paris were perfunctory. Valois felt tired yet restless. It had been an unsettling weekend and it was with a sense of relief and homecoming that he entered the apartment building. Perhaps his outrage at the idea of the car permit ought to extend to his use of his parents’ large well-appointed flat, but he was glad to find his mind could accommodate this as comfortably as it accommodated him.

The old lift had become an uncertain vehicle with lack of maintenance and power irregularities, so he headed for the staircase, ill-lit by a shrouded bulb to comply with the black-out regulations. The apartment was one floor up. He could hear a distant wireless playing music. It was a lively popular piece, but the distance, the hour and his own mood made it a melancholy sound. He sighed as he reached his landing.

Then fatigue and melancholy vanished in a trice, for terror lets no rival near the throne. There was a man crouched in the shadow of his door with a submachine gun under his arm. It was too late to retreat. The waiting man had seen him.

‘Monsieur Christian Valois?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’ve got a message for you.’

The man moved forward into the dim light. And the machine gun became a wooden crutch under his left arm. And the lurking assassin became a haggard, grey-haired man in a baggy suit.

‘A message? Who the hell from?’ demanded Valois, trying to cover his fear with aggression.

‘A friend,’ said the man. ‘Jean-Paul Simonian. Can we go inside? I’m dying of thirst!’