Night Without Stars

  Breakfast and the morning papers. It had all happened too late for these. After the meal I went out, bought another stick and went round to the shoe-shop.

  She was not in her usual corner.

  “Yes, monsieur? Can I help you?”

  “I’m looking for Mme. Delaisse.”

  “Our assistant? I’m sorry, Mme. Delaisse is on holiday.”

  “Holiday? How long for?”

  “I think it is ten days. It started from Wednesday, I know.”

  “She wasn’t here yesterday?”

  “No, monsieur.”

  “Thank you.”

  Stand in the street for a minute in the sun. She wasn’t here yesterday. I walked slowly across the town to her apartment. After trying the fourth floor and getting no answer I found Mme. Colloni again.

  She said: “No, m’sieu, Mme. Delaisse is away.”

  “Oh, you’ve seen her since last night, then.”

  “No, m’sieu, she wrote to me. She has gone on a holiday.”

  “I should be very much obliged if you could tell me where she has gone.”

  “I don’t know, m’sieu. She writes from Grasse.”

  “You mean the letter was posted from Grasse?”

  “Of course.”

  “When you saw her last she didn’t tell you she was going on a holiday?”

  “Oh, I knew she was thinking of it. She has gone away to get married, you see.”

  “Married …”

  “Yes. She was a widow, you understand.”

  “Oh, yes, I know that.”

  The woman didn’t say any more, but I couldn’t leave it like that. I let her see that they were hundred-franc notes in my hand.

  “Does she mention the name of her husband?”

  “No, m’sieu.”

  “When was the letter posted in Grasse?”

  “Yesterday afternoon.”

  “And it was delivered here this morning?”

  “Yes, this morning.”

  I couldn’t make the thing out at all. “ If she should come back unexpectedly, would you ring me at this number? It’s specially important. I’II make it worth doing.”

  “Very well, m’sieu. Thank you very much.”

  I waited till the afternoon and then sent out for the evening papers. Larosse read them to me. Because I couldn’t tell him what to look for I had to sit patiently while he went through the French government crisis and all the other stuff. He drew a complete blank.

  I said: “But is there no local news? No murders, suicides, weddings, or births to make it all more interesting?”

  He chuckled and went on picking out bits; but it was perfectly plain by now that there was nothing about Grognard in the papers.

  I waited in then until seven o’clock, hoping against hope for a message of some sort. Had she phoned last night? How could she have phoned if she was in Grasse? Had I mistaken the voice or the message? At seven I went out and had a meal, then walked to the square where the busses start. One left at eight-thirty for Cap Ferrat. This would do as it would pass through Villefranche.

  Chapter 11

  I hadn’t been to the Café Gambetta on my own, but it was easy enough to find. The bus stopped on the main road, and you went straight down towards the quay, took the second on the left, and followed straight along till you came to the steps.

  It had been a lovely day, though I hadn’t been in a mood to appreciate it. Now in the evening a nightingale was beginning to warble. The scents were particularly clear: the hot sun had warmed the earth, and in the cool everything was fresh and fragrant. One could picture the harbour glimmering and glinting in the evening light, the long curve of the bay, the mountains behind.

  I went along pretty cautiously because Villefranche is a bit of a death-trap for the non-seeing or the unwary. You’re always coming to a step or two or a sudden dip in the cobbles or a sharp angle in the streets. It must have been about nine or just after when I walked up to the Café Gambetta. It was quieter than usual, and in the outer room there was only the usual four in the corner playing cards and two or three men at the bar.

  “M’sieu?” said the boy behind the bar.

  It didn’t sound the usual voice.

  “Is it Francois?” I said.

  “No. My name is Raoul.”

  “You’re new here, aren’t you?”

  “No, m’sieu. I’ve been here for some time.”

  “Is Mère Roget in?”

  “Mère Roget, m’sieu? Who is she?” The four in the corner had stopped playing. I put my hand gently

  on the bar.

  “Go and tell Mère Roget that Giles Gordon wants to see her.”

  He sounded puzzled. “But m’sieu, I know no Mère Roget. You

  are mistaken.”

  I said: “Go and fetch Armand Delaisse, then. Ask him if his sister

  is here.”

  He said again, but in a more impatient tone: “You’ve made a

  mistake, m’sieu. No one of that name lives here. Can I get you

  something to drink?”

  I turned to the man playing cards. “ Isn’t this the Café Gambetta?”

  “No, m’sieu. This is the Café des Fourmis.”

  A couple of them said it together. Strange voices.

  “This is the Rue St. Agel?”

  “No, m’sieu. The Rue Carnot”

  What a fool. To think yourself so clever getting here. “I beg your

  pardon. I’ve mistaken the street.”

  I moved away from the bar. Even the floor seemed familiar.

  I said to the men at the table: “Could you direct me to the Rue

  St. Agel? Is it the one below this?”

  There was silence. Then one of them said: “ I’ve never heard of

  the Rue St Agel, m’sieu. Is it in Villefranche?”

  “It certainly is. The Café Gambetta is on the corner.”

  Another said: “ I’ve lived in Villefranche all my life and never

  heard of either.”

  “Thank you very much.” I turned into the street.

  Just for a minute my head swam. It all seemed so lunatic. That

  people shouldn’t know of the Café Gambetta, people who were

  natives of the place. In a bit I should be asking if this was Villefranche.

  They were lying—it couldn’t be anything else. A clumsy device,

  and not hard to show up. I walked away a few yards, bit at the

  handle of my stick, then walked farther off, to the other end of

  the street. There I drew back against the wall and waited. When

  perhaps five minutes had passed I came out again and listened for

  the next passer-by.

  Two women were coming up from the direction of the harbour. They were talking away at a great rate about the price of meat.

  I said: “ Forgive me, I’m short-sighted. Could you tell me the name of this street?”

  They stopped in mid-spate. One said: “ Rue Carnot, m’sieu.”

  That shook me up.

  “And the café down there on the corner?”

  “The Café des Fourmis.”

  I said: “Could you please tell me, then, where the Rue St. Agel is?”

  “Rue St Agel? In Villefranche? Do you know it, Netta?”

  “I’ve never heard of it.”

  “Or the Café Gambetta?” I said.

  “No, m’sieu. Are you sure it is in Villefranche?”

  “It is owned by Mère Roget?”

  “No, m’sieu. I’m sorry. We don’t know that at all.”

  They went on.

  John said: “And when did all this happen?”

  “A couple of days ago.”

  “What did you do then?”

  “Not very much. What was there to do? I hung about at the end of the street for a time and then went down to the quay to see if there was any sign of Roquefort. That was a fisherman who’d been specially friendly at the Gambetta. But nobody seemed to have hear
d of him, so in the end I came home. Yesterday I stayed in most of the day. I felt pretty queer, especially as Larosse hasn’t been able to find anything about it in the papers.”

  “No, there’s certainly been no mention of Grognard.” John relit his pipe. “I really don’t know what to make of it, Giles. If it was anybody but you I’d think …” He paused. “Of course, not being able to see …”

  “I know. It makes every statement suspect, doesn’t it?”

  “I wouldn’t go as far as that. But there might be a flaw somewhere in the story which isn’t detectable to me because I have only your account, and which isn’t detectable to you because … For instance, are you sure this man you found was dead?”

  “Certain.”

  “And are you sure it was Grognard’s flat you went to? You say you’d only been once before.”

  “It was the one I’d been to before.”

  John grunted. “There’s one possibility—I don’t know if it’s occurred to you, but it’s one that ought to be considered. That is that there’s been an attempt to frame you.”

  “It had occurred to me.”

  “You could be in rather a spot, you know.”

  “I know that.”

  “Were you invited there for that special purpose? A murder was planned and someone imitated this girl’s voice. You obligingly went along, and stuck fingerprints all over the walls. What more could they want?”

  “Nothing at all.”

  “As for the girl, on the face of it, I agree it’s not very likely that she should have anything to do with the murder.…”

  “I’ve been meeting Alix for nearly two months. One does get to know a bit about a woman in that time.”

  He was still unconvinced. “ This Villefranche business is all in keeping too.”

  I said: “ You know those jigsaws where you pick up a piece that looks exactly right for a particular hole, but when you try to put it in it just doesn’t fit. That’s the sort of piece you’ve got hold of now.”

  “Well, where is the right piece?”

  “I wish to God I knew.”

  He was silent for a bit. I could tell that his brain was going all round the thing.

  “Anyway we agree that if that body is found you’re in a nasty position.”

  “Yes.”

  “There’s one thing I’d certainly advise you to do here and now.”

  “What?”

  “Get out.”

  “The criminal flees from his crime.”

  “Right enough. But you’ll be a lot safer in England all the same. There’s a plane leaves Nice every day. You could be in England to-morrow.”

  I shook my head.

  “We all ask advice and then don’t take it. How should I ever settle at home with this thing turning over in my head?”

  “Go away and come back in a month if the coast’s clear. I’ll keep you up-to-date.”

  “I can’t, Johnny. Not at this stage. I feel I ought to go to the police.”

  “Over my dead body. Sorry, perhaps that’s the wrong simile. But can you imagine telling the story you’ve told me to a Commissaire or a Juge de Paix?”

  “If I hang on for a day or two, can you make any inquiries for me?”

  “I’ll do what I can, of course. In a private capacity, that is.

  I’ll check up.”

  There wasn’t anything in the papers the next day. I stayed in most of the day, trying to forget the sort of frame-up John had suggested. In the afternoon I went to sleep, tired out with thinking, and woke up full of discontent and anxiety. If Alix was still alive, why hadn’t she let me know something somehow? Either she was dead or … I felt surrounded with lies and deceit, and no means of telling where the truth ended and the falseness began.

  That evening I went round to the Chapels again.

  John said: “I’ve told Kay. I hope you dont mind.”

  “Of course not”

  “We haven’t found much. First the easy thing: Pierre Grognard lives at the address you visited. Second, Kay went round there this afternoon; the door of the flat was locked and no one answered the bell.”

  “It’s been found, then.”

  “By someone. Third, I rang up his restaurant here and was told he’d gone away for a fortnight. Fourth, there’s no café called the Café Gambetta in Villefranche. That’s all we’ve done.”

  “Thank you. You’ve helped a lot. Did you by any chance ring his flat?”

  “No.”

  “I did this morning. There wasn’t any answer. D’you mind if I try again now?”

  “Go ahead.”

  I got the number and heard it ringing. For a second I had the queer feeling that I was back there at the other end of the telephone in that silent room with the electric fire still burning. And Pierre Grognard still lay face downwards on the settee. The broken flower vase was at my feet and the carnations were crushed and fading.…

  There was no reply. I hung up.

  “Now what?”

  John said: “ Look, Giles. McWheeler will be back here next Wednesday. Meet him again and go back with him to England. Once you’re there you’ll more or less be out of danger, and anyway you’ll have time to think the whole thing over in perspective. Then if you still feel you want to come back here you can talk business with him. In the meantime I can keep in touch with things and let you know. Obviously if Grognard doesn’t turn up in a fortnight there’ll be a hue and cry. That’s the time for you to be absent.”

  I said: “ Do you know more than you’re telling me?”

  “No.… Far from it. My advice to any British subject I saw drifting into a mess would be the same: cut it out and go home. Even more so when it’s an old friend. The other and more particular reason is to do with this place and time. A country can’t be occupied and practically at civil war within itself and get over it in two or three years. Think what London must have been like two years after Cromwell died.… Well, now, this thing you’re concerned in may be just another eternal triangle. But there’s a strong chance that its origins lie somewhere in the occupation. That might be dangerous. In any case, you’re better out of it far better. Believe me.”

  “I grant you all that.”

  “But you won’t go?”

  “No.”

  Kay said: “Do you think Charles Bénat could help us?”

  “Um.… It’s an idea. He’s got a finger in every pie.”

  I said: “ The fellow I met that evening with you?”

  “Yes. He’s one of the most brilliant men of his generation. He was in the Resistance, too: one of the leaders. What he doesn’t know about things in this area isn’t worth knowing. Anyway, he could advise you.”

  I said: “ I thought of going to the police and telling them half the story—that Alix Delaisse had disappeared and I was anxious to trace her. It might set them off.”

  “Until we know what’s been found in Grognard’s flat I shouldn’t go near the police. I mean that, Giles.”

  There was a minute’s silence.

  “Where does this lawyer friend of yours live?” I asked.

  “In the Boulevard de Normandie. But he’s got a terrific practice; he’s quite likely to be in Paris or Marseilles.”

  “Why don’t you ring him?” Kay suggested. “Ask him round.”

  Johnny said: “ I doubt if he’d come. But I’ll ring him in the morning. Maybe you could go to his place.”

  It seemed pretty hopeless, but, “All right,” I said. “Thanks. I feel a dead loss by myself. So long as there’s something moving.…”

  John phoned me about eleven next day.

  “There’s still nothing in the papers, old boy.”

  “No.”

  “Well, I rang Bénat’s office this morning. But he’s spending the week-end at his villa above Vence, so I rang him there. He was very nice about it—of course I only hinted at the business—but anyway he suggested you could go up there on Sunday morning. He’s leaving for Toulon on Monday, so it seemed the best t
hing to do.”

  “Thanks very much. I suppose it’s worth trying. You’re not coming with me?”

  “I think you’ll be better on your own. Two lawyers together, as it were. You talk the same language.”

  “How do I get there?”

  “It’s almost impossible except by car. I’ve got to go to Cagnes on Sunday morning, so I thought I’d run you as far as that and book a taxi to take you the rest of the way.”

  “Very good of you. What time?”

  “Call for you around ten.”

  “Thanks,” I said again, “that’ll suit me very well.”

  But as I hung up the receiver it seemed a forlorn hope. The knowledgeable lawyer with his wry dry wisdom—didn’t I know the type? No doubt he’d give advice which was sound enough in principle, the outsider’s view of the case. In the old days at home, when I was just feeling my way in law, I’d been at such interviews between old Hampden and a client, when Hampden had said exactly the right thing from a legal point of view and I’d seen the client struggling vainly to convey to him all the subtle nuances that were known only to the man who saw the case from within.

  Well, I didn’t fancy myself in that position. But the interview was arranged, and perhaps it would turn out better than one feared. In the meantime there was all Saturday to go through. Perhaps it would bring something to give us a new light on things.

  Chapter 12

  There was still no mention of Grognard in the papers. It rained heavily Saturday night but was fine enough Sunday morning, and the sun was breaking through as I tried to fold myself into John’s little Fiat.

  He said: “I wonder what it feels like being as tall as you. I’m sure it doesn’t serve any useful purpose.”

  I said: “ it serves the purpose of keeping the species endlessly variable. Does this door shut?”

  “Only when the hinges are free of clothing. Let me.”

  I was grateful for his cheerful talk on the way to Cagnes. He’d never been able to stop talking at school, and it had got him into endless trouble. As I sat there listening to him I could fancy the years had never happened and the war had never happened and that everything was as it had once been.