The Prisoner of the Riviera (The Francis Bacon Mysteries) (16 page)

Have I mentioned my fondness for sailors? I have a weakness, as Nan would say, for members of the maritime profession, for the toilers of the sea, for jolly jack-tars and also the not-so-jolly ones, who are really more to my taste. But Nice, alas, is not a naval port: no smart white-and-blue uniforms, no gay striped shirts and red pom-pom-topped caps. Nice had hard-eyed fishermen and workers on the cement boats and the ferry trade, few promising enough to make the port-side bistros appealing. But eventually full dark descended, the nightclubs, smart or seedy, got in full swing, and café society came out to play.

I wandered along a brightly lit street, searching out Hector’s likely prospects, Le Chien Rouge, Le Nouveau Mayfair, La Voile Noire, Bacchus, and El Grec. I’d decided that Eugène was a gay dog, and at each one, I had a few drinks, listened to the headliner, and flirted with other patrons. I was in full bon vivant mode and after applauding a singer who squawked through “As Time Goes By,”
or “L’amour est un jeu,” it was easy to say, “Know who I miss? Mademoiselle Veronique. Anyone remember her?” And sometimes to add, “Gustave. That was his name. Gustave G-something, Gravois, I think. Yes, Gustave Gravois, but he usually performed as Mademoiselle Veronique. Now there was a voice.”

Reaction to this gambit varied. Incomprehension, mostly; the war was ever present and under the rug simultaneously, while prewar seemed as ancient as Babylonia, and the only allowable nostalgia was a few old songs. Most claimed never to have heard Gravois, though a chap who knew the mademoiselle had “sung for the Krauts” punched me a good one, with the result that we both landed on the sidewalk. I hoped that he’d prove interesting in one way or another, but he was just a drunk with a temper. With dwindling possibilities of success and needing a restorative drink, I tried a little ramshackle place with a garden seating area. The headliner last seen on the memorable night when I entered the gravediggers’ fraternity had squeezed himself into a tight red satin gown to warble
“Un amour comme le nôtre.” I took a seat at one of the tables, ordered Champagne, and sent my compliments to the chanteuse, who sashayed over at the end of his set, his makeup softening in the heat.

“Champagne! For me? My dear, this is a special night. One’s work is so seldom appreciated.”

I could certainly believe that—but I have a tin ear for music. “Your singing takes me back to café life before the war.”

“Before my time,” he said kittenishly. “Professionally speaking.”

He embroidered a bit on his extreme youth, though he was forty if he was a day. He was quite amusing, but I’m not so fond of campy acquaintances. I really prefer straight men, pun intended, because I like to camp it up myself and have the best lines. Still, this was work, this was business, this was dedication. I listened in silence, bought him some chocolates to go with the bubbly, and worked the conversation round to my prewar favorite, Mademoiselle Veronique. “Such a talent, such a voice. One could forget everything listening to Mademoiselle Veronique.”

I thought that the name made him uneasy, but he asked about her repertoire. Repertoire! Hector hadn’t briefed me that thoroughly. “Rather like yours,” I said. “And lieder, of course.” I seemed to remember that the Berlin of my misspent youth had been fond of lieder.

“Lieder is for artists, but I expect she had a hard time. There was not much call for lieder here during the war.”

“In certain quarters it remained popular.”

“I wouldn’t know about those.” He drew himself up in a way that rather spoiled the illusion of his décolletage. “Monsieur, I am a patriot.”

I raised my glass. “I wouldn’t have dreamed otherwise. But Mademoiselle Veronique lived for the stage. One might even say she only lived onstage. Her choices would not be our choices, yours and mine, I mean, but consider that irreplaceable voice! So I’ve been looking out for her. She might do well to consider leaving France, having a flutter elsewhere.”

He poured himself another glass and shook his head. “Alas, Monsieur, the name doesn’t sound familiar.”

“The name, what’s in a name? ‘The rose by any other name would smell as sweet,’ etc. etc.” I took out one of the handbills and laid it on the table.

“Oh, Hotel Negresco. Very nice. Lovely acoustics, décor to die for. And that dress! Not the thing now, of course, except in clubs catering to a certain age. Old-fashioned, you know. But splendid,” he admitted, “splendid.” He ran his finger down the line of the tea gown, which was softly draped, semisheer, and lavishly embroidered.

“Everything about Mademoiselle Veronique was first class,” I said. “And what was surprising was that Gustave himself was unprepossessing.” I slid one of the photos of Gustave Gravois across the table. This time there was no doubt: He recognized the face.

“Oh,” he said. “I hadn’t realized.”

“You do know him, then?”

“Oh, yes, though not personally. He’s been singing and introducing the headliners in clubs for half a year. Le Chien Rouge. He was in Le Chien Rouge—when? Let’s see. I find time flies, dear, especially on the wings of Champagne.” There was an edge of bitterness in his voice. “Must be a month ago now.” He looked again at the handbill and compared it to Gravois’s image. “I’d never have guessed he was such a queen. Though you are right, a good voice, still expressive if worn at the edges. Too good really for the work he’s doing, but he shows no spark, none of the true artistic fire.”

He seemed set to go on in this vein, and I said, “Art was for Mademoiselle Veronique.”

“Must have been. Remarkable!”

“You said about a month ago for his engagement at Le Chien Rouge. Have you seen him since?”

“My own engagements have kept me occupied, but no, I haven’t seen him around lately.”

“A pity. I am only in Nice briefly. Who might know how to reach him?”

“Le Chien Rouge is one of Serge Brun’s clubs. You might track him down.” When he smiled, he showed a pair of long canines. “But no one asks Serge too many questions, if you get my meaning.”

I did indeed. “Anyone else who might know where he lives?”

“I do,” he said unexpectedly. “I know because he rented a room in the same apartment as a friend of mine, a young dancer I know. Nice girl. You find her, you’ll find out about him, too, though I haven’t seen her lately, either. She used to stop by after her shows. I’d walk her home and she’d do alterations for me.”

I held my breath, for I sensed what was coming.

“I don’t know her real name; we performers live in our own theatrical world, you know, dear, but Mademoiselle Justine is her stage name. She lives just north of the port.” He gave me the address.

I thanked him profusely and got up.

“You’re not leaving when there’s still Champagne!”

I took his hand and kissed it. “For you,” I said and made my escape. Cybèle had been living in the same apartment building as Gustave Gravois, aka Mademoiselle Veronique, aka Madame Renard. Even the insouciant Eugène needed time to think that over, and at two a.m. after a trawl through the cafés of Nice, neither he nor I was feeling too sharp. According to plan, my duties were ended; I could phone the
tabac
and pass on the message to Hector. But not at this hour. This was the hour for good burghers and even ex-Sûreté men to be in their beds, and for night birds like yours truly to walk off the evening’s indulgences. I headed north.

The streets were quiet. I like that. I like darkness and long shadows and the moon behind clouds, all of which take me back to the blackout and bombers’ moons and the threat of imminent destruction from the air. Horrid at the moment, but curiously stimulating in retrospect, teasing the mind with images and fragments that I must learn how to render. I walked the night streets of Nice with images of strange rooms and strange bodies roiling against luminous gray, pink, and orange backgrounds; I would experiment with those as soon as I got back to London where I could paint.

The apartment building was on a shady street lined with plane trees. There were mopeds chained to the iron railings, and a welter of garbage cans to one side. The old building had come down in the world, but it was classic French architecture with long windows, decorative stucco work, and balconies running the length of the façade and swooping along the sides. I wondered if there would still be a prying, sleepless concierge on the premises. Eugène thought so, but I recalled the irregular hours and careless arrangements of the theatrical profession and decided to try the front door. I wasn’t surprised to discover that the building was unlocked.

Inside there was just enough light to make out the names on the mailboxes: several married couples and, on the fourth floor,
P. Moreau, Musician
, who must give lessons at home. The other labels gave no clue to either sex or occupation:
O. Blanchard
,
R. Lefevre
,
P. Roche
,
V. Garnier
—and
C. Chavanel
in 32
.
Cybèle, third floor. But there was no G. Gravois and no sign of Madame Renard, either. Eliminating the couples and Cybèle left five possibilities. I leaned toward V. Garnier in 36, as the name combined the initial letters of Veronique and Gravois, but given Gravois’s musical gifts it wasn’t inconceivable that he had been instructor P. Moreau in 42, directly above Cybèle.

In any case, P. Moreau would be Eugène’s entrée, for while music leaves me cold, he had developed a sudden desire for singing lessons. I was pondering the approach and trying to work up enthusiasm for the vocal art when I heard footsteps outside. A tardy resident or part of the “surveillance” Hector had mentioned? Ought Eugène to walk out like a solid citizen or beat a strategic retreat? Common sense said leave; the knife that had shattered my painting kit said hide. The lobby was bare and, except for whatever might be upstairs or down, offered not the slightest refuge. I decided on the stairs. I reached the first landing as the door opened and crouched behind the ornate iron railings supporting the banister.

Someone large in the lobby—the light was too dim to make out more than that he was wearing a dark suit and a wide-brimmed trilby that shaded his face. He inspected the mailboxes as I had done. Not a resident then, and I crept across the hall and up the second flight. I didn’t think that he heard me, but he followed. I could see his shadow, elongated by the light below, wavering on the wall. It moved with a curious halting motion as if he were lame or too ill to take the stairs easily. That proved to be my good luck, for before he reached the second floor, I’d made the third. C. Chavanel’s apartment was in the middle at the back and her door was securely locked. I hadn’t time to try the others. At the end of the hall, one of the long windows gave out onto the balcony. I pushed it open and climbed out.

Three stories below were the alley and the spiky feathers of a palm tree. The balcony appeared to circle the building, each apartment’s outdoor space delineated by a quarter circle of spiked metal. I didn’t see much hope from the lighted front of the building, which was directly on the street. The back was probably darker and might give access to Cybèle’s flat. I tested the metal barrier with a shake—a slight wobble but not too bad. Did I hear someone in the hall? The sound of an uneven footstep?

With that inspiration, I took a breath, seized one of the rusty decorative points, put my foot on another lower one, and swung out over the pavement below. The barrier shifted down a fraction, and I made a frantic grab for purchase on the other side with my left hand. Another shift, this time definitely downward. I straddled the points, risking a good deal of excitement and future happiness, then swung myself around, precipitating a shower of rust flakes and causing the ironwork to screech but enabling me to put one foot on the neighboring balustrade. Despite a number of scratches, I was able to step down onto the floor of the balcony. Terra firma. I maneuvered around a potted plant and took shelter behind the awning that was hanging loosely from its framework. Then I waited.

The moon flirted with the clouds, lightening and darkening the façade, but there was no sound from either the apartment behind me or the hallway. Perhaps I had risked a drop of three stories for no good reason. Perhaps I could maneuver my way back, walk down the hall, and find my way out. Perhaps, but I was loath to risk that particular piece of ironwork again. Onward, Eugène! I banged my shins on a little metal table, caught a chair just before it went over, and reached the next barrier, this one right at the rear corner of the building. Another little adventure with gravity and aging metal. During the war, I got over any fear of heights fire watching in church steeples with Arnold. I hadn’t imagined that being up forty, fifty feet and higher with the imminent threat of high explosives would ever pay dividends.

The first apartment was occupied by gardeners who owned a small grove of plants, scented and laden with pollen. I stifled what had promised to be a titanic sneeze and picked my way cautiously around pots and saucers, watering cans, and miniature garden implements. Behind the greenery, the apartment shutters were closed and locked, and somewhere within, my eternal nemesis, a small dog, began to bark. I swung out on the barrier without waiting to test it. With a nasty creak, it dropped me a good four inches toward oblivion, before I got a foot on the ledge of the balustrade. The whole construction seemed set to pull away from the masonry. I threw my weight against the spikes—uncomfortable business—and bracing myself against the balustrade, swung around the barrier, which listed alarmingly to deposit me on what I hoped was Cybèle’s share of the balcony. I forced the barrier back as far as it would go and got into the shadows behind an open shutter on the French doors.

A man’s voice next door began arguing with the dog, which with the mad persistence of its species, continued to insist on alarms and strangers and problems on the balcony. I heard French doors creak open and stopped breathing. The dog rattled the pots on its way to the barrier, where it planted itself and began a row that ended only when the exasperated owner carried it back inside. The whole canine tribe has it in for me.