Paris Noir (10 page)

‘Not tonight. Your rags‚ paper‚ scrap metal – this is no time to be talking about such things.’

Olga had made some very strong coffee‚ real black market coffee. We were savouring it‚ making the most of it‚ thanking her. Her partner had come to drink at our table. Passing
behind her‚ Olga fondly held her by the shoulders and tried discreetly to kiss the back of her neck‚ as a man might have done. But Edouard noticed what she was up to.

‘Hey‚ there‚ lezzies! Don’t mind us!’

‘We’re not bothered‚’ said Cyril‚ laughing.

And the Old Man began to chortle. ‘There are some scales in which all this weighs very little.’

We were momentarily distracted by a noise outside‚ where normally there wouldn’t have been anyone about yet. It took us a few minutes to realize that the Old Man had disappeared‚ vanished into thin air‚ leaving behind his empty cup.

Fernand has a law degree and is currently a police inspector‚ which is no sinecure for people like him. For he’s there‚ he says – and he proves it – ‘for the right reason’: to get his man; and he’s resigned to being cordially detested by those for whom‚ without their realizing it‚ he does the most incredible favours. I know from experience. We’re friends. This morning Fernand came looking for me. ‘You’ll be interested in this. Come and see. It’s just round the corner. And if you don’t have any‚ borrow some eau-de-Cologne from your next-door neighbour. Bring at least two handkerchiefs.’

Number 6‚ Impasse Maubert is familiar territory to me‚ having recently investigated its history. It was there that three hundred years ago the Marquis de Ste-Croix‚ the lover of Brinvilliers‚ set up his laboratory‚ and it was there that he was found dead among his retorts‚ in circumstances still disputed by historians.

The stench is overpowering. In his room on the top floor‚ lying on his bed fully dressed‚ Vladimir looks hideous. His throat is slit from ear to ear. His whole body is convulsed. His hands clutch the mattress. His knees are drawn up to his chin.

‘So?’

‘So‚ nothing. I’m just the local cop. I’m only entitled to make the initial report. The murderer wasn’t looking for anything‚ didn’t take anything. This was under the pillow.’

He shows me a bundle of banknotes. He says‚ ‘I’m waiting for the guys from the Crime Squad. The stink in here is really overpowering. Go and treat yourself to a glass of rum down at Pagès. I’ll be with you in a minute. I want to ask you a question‚ for my own information.’

At Pagès‚ all he asked me was if I thought Vladimir’s murder had anything to do with the Germans’ being here. I said no‚ I didn’t think so.

‘If you want me to forget you’re a cop‚ after all‚ then don’t grill me‚ even if it’s just for your own information.’

He didn’t persist.

Vladimir had been dead for several days‚ and it was because of the smell that the neighbours had broken open the door. The building‚ which was already squalid‚ was in danger of becoming uninhabitable. By late afternoon Monsieur Casquette was there‚ together with two assistants‚ to do the necessary. No question of taking the body out in a coffin. Impossible to lie him flat in order to get him inside the pine box. He remained curled up. The undertakers pulled and tugged‚ one holding him by the feet‚ the other by his armpits. They’d made a kind of cowl for themselves‚ with cloths soaked in a special solution.

Then Monsieur Casquette took a decision. He grabbed a hammer intended for this purpose‚ and shattered the body’s elbows and knees – the knees! – and then wrapped the corpse‚ now like a disjointed puppet‚ in a shroud. So narrow was the staircase‚ they’d already had difficulty getting the coffin up there. It was the firemen that lent them ropes. They lowered the coffin out of the window‚ with two hundred onlookers who’d gathered to watch‚ delighted by this unannounced attraction.

‘That sure is a rotten job you’ve got‚ Monsieur Casquette.’

‘Someone’s got to do it. After being at it for nearly twenty years‚ you don’t give too much thought to what you’re doing any more.’

‘By the way‚ when you smashed his knees‚ did you give any thought to the tattoos under the cloth of his trousers that you were blithely destroying?’

‘Hmm! No. It’s only just now that you remind me of that detail.’

12 September

I ran into Fernand.

‘Any news about the stiff at Impasse Maubert?’

‘Yes. The Crime Squad didn’t take long to identify the assassin: a Bulgarian‚ a former legionnaire with whom your rag-picker had some falling-out in the past. But he was never brought to trial.’

‘Oh?’

‘The guy and his wife reckoned they’d soon be picked up in Paris. They went trekking round the outskirts. They were drinkers. One night‚ over towards the St-Denis plain‚ they bunked down at the foot of a disused lime kiln that was in the process of being demolished. No one could have suspected they were lying there. In the early morning‚ they were both hit‚ more or less simultaneously‚ by huge blocks of rubble that smashed their faces and crushed their skulls. They were taken to Lariboisière; but they must have snuffed it instantly.’

I related this to Monsieur Casquette. He asked me to help him compose a letter. He wanted to quit his job with the undertakers for health reasons.

Tell me who you haunt‚ and I’ll tell you who you hate.

April 1943

It had become inevitable.

Here am I‚ the sceptical‚ disillusioned‚ cynical recusant‚ ‘the anarchist’ my mates say‚ not without some justification‚ placed under orders‚ of my own free will. A signed-up member of a – military‚ if you please – resistance unit. This certainly isn’t the result of a fit of delayed patriotism. I’ve good reason not to care two hoots about the fate and progress of the regular army‚ their backside still sore from the terrific kick in the pants they were given‚ busily congratulating each other and‚ in the Vichy zone‚ pinning medals of the now defunct Third Republic on each other’s chests.

But I just couldn’t refuse to get involved in hiding this poor parachutist who couldn’t speak a word of French and was outraged at not being able to find any American-tobacco cigarettes here. Then one thing led to another …

My ‘job’ consists of directing bombings on to German targets in the Paris region. In other words‚ to make sure there are as few civilian casualties as possible. That’s all! Whatever happens‚ my conscience will be clear. What more can one ask?

The missions I carry out leave me with a lot of free time; moreover‚ I needed some sort of ‘cover’. Every morning I’m a teacher of French and drawing for the Vocational Education Authority.

Nevertheless‚ I haven’t abandoned my beloved bohemians. But things were beginning to get a bit difficult at Pignol’s. We’ve migrated to a less perilous haven: the Trois-Mailletz‚ near St-Julien-le-Pauvre. On the corner of Rue Galande.

The ‘Oberge des Mailletz’ is by far the oldest tavern of which any record can found in the City archives. In 1292‚ Adam des Mailletz‚ inn-keeper‚ paid a tithe of 18 sous and 6 deniers. This we learn from the Tax Register of the period. At the time it was founded‚ the Trois-Mailletz was the meeting place of masons‚ who under the supervision of Jehan de Chelles‚ carved out of white stone the biblical characters destined to grace the north and south choirs of Notre-Dame. Underneath the building‚ there are two floors of superimposed cellars: the deeper ones date from the Gallo-Roman period. What remains of the instruments of torture found in the cellars of the Petit-Châtelet have been housed here‚ along with some other restored objects.

A modest bar counter‚ a long-haired
patron
who bizarrely manages never to be freshly shaven or downright bearded. A stove in the middle of the shabby room; simple straightforward folk‚ less drunk than at Rue de Bièvre‚ and less dirty. Just what we needed.

When she appeared‚ with that bundle in her arms‚ we had no more reason than anyone else to be there‚ Théophile‚ Séverin and I. A grey fur hat pulled down to her eyes gave her an Asiatic look.

A tatty coat‚ also grey‚ with collar and cuffs to match the hat‚ completed her outfit.

A face of indeterminate age. No chin. On careful consideration‚ a feline cast of countenance. It was only when she was there‚ with us‚ that we had the peculiar sensation that we’d actually been expecting her. We noticed her bundle was alive‚ wrapped in bits of cloth. She just stood there‚ by the door. The
patron
– Grospierre by name‚ a decent fellow – observed her patiently‚ from behind his thick glasses.

Finally‚ she said shyly‚ in a shrill and uncertain voice like a squeaking violin‚ ‘You wouldn’t have a drop of milk‚ by any chance?’

‘My dear woman‚ of course not!’ said Grospierre. (Milk‚ these days! Just imagine!)

She gave a sigh. Aaah! And lifted her bundle as though to raise it to her lips. There were in those gestures‚ the look in her eyes‚ and that sigh such discouragement‚ such disappointment and despair that we all felt moved and almost ashamed.

Grospierre gave a grimace of exasperation. ‘Wait a moment!’

He came back with a cup‚ and said‚ ‘Cold? Hot?’

‘It’s fine just the way it is.’

The woman’s eyes shone with contentment‚ but she’d long lost the ability to smile. She sat down‚ pulled back a corner of the cloth covering the bundle and revealed the head of a shivering kitten. Grospierre‚ like the rest of us‚ was expecting to see the face of a baby. Not at all put out‚ he just stood there and watched her.

With infinite care‚ she offered the cup to the animal‚ which greedily lapped it up. When it was finished the woman said‚ ‘Ah! Thank you!’ She hesitated‚ then added‚ ‘Can I stay here in the warmth for a while?’

The first soft drink‚ Théophile bought for her. She remained sitting there for a long time in silence. She gazed round fearfully‚ looking everywhere‚ especially into dark corners. She left only when she felt completely reassured.

She returned the next day‚ then the following days. She always carried a cat in her arms‚ but never the same one. Sometimes she was also laden with a heavy shopping bag full of things she didn’t show anyone.

We learned that her name was Mina‚ that she begged‚ or worked if the opportunity arose‚ that she took in stray cats and shared her home with them‚ in a wooden shed at Gentilly from which she was soon to be evicted.

She was terribly upset about this‚ primarily because of the animals she cared for and fed‚ to which she devoted her time and her life.

I don’t know which one of us was the first to nickname her ‘Mina the Cat’. But it was impossible‚ yes‚ impossible‚ to think of her in any other way.

At the Trois-Mailletz‚ the regulars ended up adopting Mina
as the symbol of the profound indifference of everyday-life to what most preoccupied the rest of the world. People spoke in veiled terms of the difficulties of the German advance in Russia‚ of what was going on in Greece‚ in North Africa and here of course. They harped on about repressive measures likely to be introduced‚ on rationing to be feared‚ on the validation of the next fortnight’s bread vouchers.

And then Mina would come in‚ cradling a ‘nursling’: and no one was worried about anything else any more but the cat’s health‚ the circumstances in which it had been found. And every day all of us would keep aside some scraps of food.

One day we were awaiting Mina with a kind of gleeful impatience. Séverin had found an attic to live in‚ at Dumont’s place‚ on Rue Maître-Albert‚ where‚ if she introduced them discreetly‚ one by one‚ she could accommodate her lodgers.

With a few soap boxes‚ a bit of sawdust‚ and some bleach – which could be gathered together easily enough – all the requirements of relative hygiene and temporary refuge could be met. Two skylights opened on to the roof‚ to which the animals would have easy access‚ and where they could caterwaul at the moon to their heart’s content.

In the event of any objection from Dumont‚ who sheltered – and hid – a good many men on the run‚ we undertook to square things with him.

The main thing was that Mina should move in.

At last she turned up. She sat down as usual. We broke the good news to her. But she seemed not to give it as much attention as we were entitled to expect.

This time more than ever before‚ her charge of the day alone claimed her care and solicitude. It was a dreadful little mog‚ a mangy one-eyed ginger tom. And vicious‚ stupidly vicious‚ because it scratched its benefactress when she tried to get it to drink. We advised her to leave to its own fate this ugly and ungrateful beast – dangerous too‚ for it looked diseased‚ and was likely to infect its fellow felines. Advice‚ exhortations were of no use. Mina stubbornly replied that she would devote herself to this animal more than any other‚ firstly
because it spurned her‚ and also because it was sick and disfigured‚ and therefore the most unfortunate.

There was nothing left to say.

The next day Mina moved to Rue Maître-Albert. We helped her transport her personal belongings‚ her cats‚ and a few carefully wrapped cardboard boxes – what they contained we made no attempt to find out.

Bizinque gave us a hand and lent his trolley.

That same evening‚ worn out‚ having taken care of her animals‚ Mina was able to lie down on a bed made of bundles of newspapers covered with a ‘mattress’. The mattress was an oilcloth folded in two‚ sewn up into a bag stuffed with sawdust.

We really thought we’d done a great deal to put Mina’s mind at rest by finding that place for her. Alas! It was from that day her troubles began.

And once again‚ we weren’t to blame.

That ghastly little ginger creature was the cause of it all. Mina persisted in coddling and cherishing the beast‚ which was undoubtedly afflicted with some dangerous disease we weren’t able to identify. Peevish and insinuating‚ its voice was an amazing‚ disturbing‚ raucous snarl.

Mina decided to consult the black vet (the one who’d tried to save the dog at Rue de Bièvre).

Again‚ Doctor N was circumspect. This is what he said: ‘There’s more to that cat than meets the eye.’ Nevertheless‚ he cured it. With a shinier coat and a more robust appearance‚ apparently totally recovered‚ the beast didn’t seem any more grateful to Mina for her patient devotion. Once it was back on its feet again (or rather‚ its paws) – only its missing eye couldn’t be replaced – it escaped through the skylight and disappeared over the rooftops without so much as a goodbye.