Night Sky (86 page)

‘When? When did the prisoners see him?’

The commissaire looked down the file. ‘In approximately April last year.’

She frowned. It was about the time Jean and the others had died. It seemed to fit … ‘But why was he taken to Paris when none of the others were?’

‘Madame, I cannot say at this stage.’ He started to shuffle the papers on his desk. The interview was clearly over. ‘I’m sorry, madame. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a lot of work to do.’

She stood up. ‘But wait! Please – there’s more. I must know if you have information about the British crew! The men off the boat, the ones who were captured at the same time—’

‘British—?’ He sucked in his breath and shook his head. ‘No. The Germans left a few records behind, but foreign sailors – they would have been prisoners of war … We don’t deal with them. You should try the Americans. They might know.’

‘But they were brought
here
, to Rennes. To the
prison
.’

‘Sorry. Any records of foreign prisoners would be in the hands of the Americans. Really, you must go and see them.’

‘I have.’ And there had been nothing, no trace. It was as if Richard and his men had vanished.

‘Ah.’ The commissaire tapped his fingers on the desk. ‘Well, I really must get on now. If you please, madame!’

‘At least let me see my cousin!’

The policeman stood up, laughing. ‘Quite impossible, madame! At least, not without permission from the examining magistrate. Applications take days and even then I doubt you’d be allowed to see him … People charged with treason don’t get visitors! Goodbye, madame.’

She lingered, reluctant to leave.

The policeman was getting impatient. ‘I’ll have you shown to the main hall.’ He called to someone in the next office then sat down and studied the papers on his desk.

Julie said quickly, ‘Monsieur … Will you be interrogating him again?’

‘What?’ He looked up vacantly. ‘Probably, yes.’

‘Couldn’t you face him with
me
? With someone from the group he is supposed to have betrayed? Wouldn’t that be useful?’

The commissaire was way ahead of her. He shook his head. ‘Madame, really—’

‘But it might help your interrogation considerably!’

He looked at her quizzically. ‘In what way?’

‘He might talk freely!’

‘You read too much fiction, madame!’

‘But you have nothing to lose!
Please
.’

The commissaire shook his head and sighed deeply. ‘Madame, I just cannot!’

But she nearly had him, she knew it. She leant over the desk and said passionately, ‘He’ll answer questions from me, I
know
he will!’

The commissaire regarded his hands, then shot a glance at her. He sighed and shook his head unhappily. ‘You win. Be here at eight tomorrow morning.’

Julie clasped her hands together.

He added, ‘But remember this! It’s only because you were in the Resistance. No other reason! And whatever you do, don’t tell anyone I let you see him. All right?’

‘Yes, I promise!’

Julie closed the door behind her, pleased that she had achieved something at last.

Then she remembered it was a very small victory and there was still a long way to go.

The prison was large and sombre and forbidding, its high walls dotted with small barred windows from which escape was clearly impossible. Julie looked at it and felt sick at heart.

Inside it was worse. Dark and terrible, rank with the smell of humanity and suffering and untold horrors; yet hauntingly silent, as if empty of inhabitants.

A warder led the way down a series of long gloomy passages whose walls threw off a palpable cold. Julie shivered involuntarily.

‘Not so good, eh?’ remarked the commissaire. ‘They haven’t done much to it since the Germans left. But then most of the new inhabitants are collaborators and black marketeers … So—’ He shrugged.

They came to a door. The warder unlocked it. The commissaire said, ‘Wait here until you’re called,’ and disappeared.

Julie leant against the wall in despair. Her mind was full of terrible visions, of Jean and Maurice and Gérard and Jacques and the others.

Here
.

The Gestapo had brought them
here
. She closed her eyes. She wanted to know nothing – no details. Not where their cells had been, nor the place where they’d been tortured, nor the courtyard somewhere just down
there
where they’d been taken to die.

The door was opening. ‘Come in!’

She opened her eyes with relief. Then, hesitating slightly, stepped inside. The room was large and almost bare, and dimly lit by a single barred window. There was a table in the centre. Michel was sitting at the far side of it.

He looked up, startled. She thought: They didn’t tell him I was here.

She smiled faintly. ‘
Salut
, Michel.’

He stared at her, confusion and amazement on his face. The commissaire said abruptly, ‘Madame, can you identify this man?’

‘Yes, he is Michel Le Goff.’

‘And do you affirm that he arranged the escape of the scientist, Freymann, from the factory of Goulvent, Pescart et Cie in Brest?’

Julie sharpened her wits. She hadn’t realised it was going to be like this. She looked at Michel for help, but he was still staring at her. As she brought her eyes back to the commissaire’s, Julie noticed that there was a young man in the corner, taking notes on a shorthand pad. She would have to be careful.

She replied slowly, ‘He was the contact – between his group and ours. I don’t know if he actually arranged the escape.’

‘But as contact man, he knew certain facts about your group? The mode of operation, the people involved?’

Julie said firmly, ‘No! He knew nothing. Maurice was very careful!’

‘Your leader?’

‘Yes.’

‘But perhaps you told Le Goff certain things?’

‘What things do you mean?’

‘Things about the group.’

‘No!’

‘Consider very carefully, madame … I will ask you again. Perhaps Le Goff discovered certain facts about your group. Perhaps you mentioned certain things without realising—?’

‘No!’ Julie said angrily. ‘I never told him anything! He knew nothing!’

‘Then how did he know where to find you when you were hiding on the beach? How did he know
which
beach to go to?’

She hesitated. This was becoming a nightmare. ‘It … must have been through my uncle. Jean must have asked Michel for help and then told him where to find us. That must have been it!’

There was a pause. Julie looked to Michel for confirmation, but he was still staring at her and she had the feeling that he wasn’t really listening.

The commissaire asked, ‘After he’d collected you from the beach, he took you to a fishing boat that he kept hidden in Kernibon?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you escaped on it?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did he say why he had a fishing boat?’

Julie blinked. ‘No. But – I supposed it was to escape if the Boches got onto him.’

‘But suddenly he felt no need of it and gave it to you. I wonder why he should do that?’

‘Because – we were in desperate need. The Gestapo were looking for us … They would have killed us. He gave it to us because he was
kind
. He wanted to
help
.’

‘Indeed … Or perhaps because he had just done the Boches a favour and felt safe. So safe he wouldn’t be needing the boat any more and could afford to be generous to his – friend?’

Julie felt herself turning scarlet. She wanted to step up to the commissaire and slap his big, fat face. She made an effort and said quietly, ‘That is not true. None of it is! He wasn’t the traitor! I’ve told you who was – it was the man Fougères.’

The commissaire ignored her remark. ‘Is there any more evidence that you can offer?’

She wished there was. She said quietly, ‘No.’

The commissaire looked at the warder. ‘That will be all, thank you.’

Julie started in alarm. She caught hold of the commissaire’s arm. ‘Please,’ she whispered, ‘can I have a few words with him in private?’

The policeman’s eyes were cold. ‘No, madame.’

‘Not in private, then. With
them
present.’ She indicated the warder and the man with the pad.

The commissaire was considering. Eventually he said grudgingly, ‘All right! But no more than five minutes.’ He turned abruptly and the warder let him out of the door.

Quickly, Julie sat down at the table. ‘How are you?’

Michel shook his head. ‘You shouldn’t have come.’

‘But why not?’

‘Because …’ He shrugged. ‘It won’t do any good.’

‘No! Don’t say that! We’ll—’

He interrupted, ‘How’s Tante Marie?’

Julie shook her head. ‘Not – well. She hardly knew me.’

‘And Peter?’

‘Oh fine. I left him in the Scillies. But Michel we haven’t much time. Please tell me how I can help you!’

‘The boat. It got you to England all right then?’

‘Not quite,’ Julie said unhappily. ‘It was wrecked.’

Michel nodded as if the news was to be expected.

She said, ‘It was my fault.’

‘You did well to get there at all.’

The time was slipping away. She said urgently, ‘But what can I do to
help
you?’

‘Help me? I think no-one can. They’re out to get me, and they will. One way or the other.’ He smiled but there was a hint of false bravado in it.

‘But there must be evidence! Michel, who really did it, do you know?’

He laughed. ‘You ask
me
?’ He shook his head. ‘How should I know? All I can say is it wasn’t one of mine.’

She reached over and gripped his hand. ‘I believe it was a man called Fougéres. A stranger in the line. He came from Paris and was meant to have survived the Meteor collapse. But I always distrusted him!’

‘And what’s happened to him, does anyone know?’

She paused and withdrew her hand. ‘Well – they
say
he’s dead. But—’

He nodded and gave a small shrug as if he’d expected it.

Julie said crossly, ‘You’ve given up hope!’

‘I’m a realist, that’s all.’

She sighed deeply. ‘Michel, what can I do for you when you won’t give me any help!’

‘Don’t concern yourself, Julie. My friends are doing what they can. They’re asking around …’

‘Have they found out anything?’

‘I’m not sure.’

‘How do I find these friends?’

For a moment she thought he wasn’t going to answer then he said, ‘In Paris, a bar called Chez Alphonse. Ask for Pierre.’

She nodded. ‘I’ll do everything I can. Everything!’

There was a pause. He asked, ‘Have you any money?’

Her face fell. ‘Not much.’

‘If you can get into my apartment you’ll find some hidden under the bottom plate inside the oven. Just lever it up. All right?’

She nodded. ‘I’ll return any I don’t need.’

He gave a bitter laugh. ‘It’s not important.’ A strange look flashed into his eyes – a look of fear and despair. It sent a chill through Julie’s heart.

The warder said, ‘Time up!’ and moved towards the door.

Hurriedly, she touched his hand. ‘I’ve never really said thank you for what you did. The boat … and getting us from the beach …’ She shook her head. ‘You should have kept the boat and got away …’

‘No, you needed it more.’ He stood up and pushed the chair into the table. He smiled and his grave, lined face looked a little less severe. ‘See you! Take care!’

‘I’ll do everything I can—’

‘Sure.’

He turned quickly and walked to a door on the opposite side of the room. Though she waited an instant, he never looked back.

I
T WAS ALMOST
as if there had never been a war. The city lay pale and gleaming under the late September sun, its long boulevards and elegant buildings apparently un-scarred by bombs and bullets. Julie was faintly surprised: it was so different from the devastation of London.

When one looked closer, however, one could see signs of the long Occupation: years of stringency and neglect had left buildings in urgent need of repair; the streets were littered and uncleaned; and walls were daubed with slogans or, in some cases, with rough white crosses where people had died.

Nevertheless, the atmosphere was festive. Even the shabbiest buildings were draped with bright flags, many of them home-made. More than a month after the city’s liberation the bright colours of the Stars and Stripes and the Union Jack still hung from dozens of balconies. But, brighter, taller, prouder than these was the
tricolore
, flying high above the rooftops of a hundred buildings, a symbol of many things, but to most Parisians a symbol, above all, of freedom.

Julie found a room at a small hotel in the
treizième
, then went in search of the place called Chez Alphonse. It wasn’t listed in the telephone directory, but a shopkeeper knew it and gave her directions. It was a small bar, narrow and dim, its walls yellow with nicotine. When she asked for Pierre, the bartender told her Pierre might not be in for days, but it should be possible to send him a message. Julie composed a short message on the back of an envelope and left it with the bartender. He told her there was no point in coming back until much later, at about nine.