Night Sky Page 16

  By the end of the month there was chaos. The Germans had paid for everything in Occupation money which was found to be worthless; the food disappeared from the markets to feed the German Army; petrol suddenly disappeared from the filling stations; and, overnight, prices shot up.

  Vasson began trading. He started by selling coffee and petrol to the French. He dealt only in francs, in cash. As soon as he had money he spent it again, increasing his stock.

  A few weeks later it was time to start dealing with the Germans. They had an almost insatiable desire for stockings, lingerie and perfume. Now that they’d emptied the shops they were happy to buy on the black market. But Vasson needed a contact: someone in supplies, who would buy his luxuries in exchange for food or tyres or petrol – he wasn’t prepared to deal in worthless German money.

  It didn’t take long to find his man, a quartermaster sergeant called Seiger. Vasson would have preferred to deal with an officer, to make the operation more permanent and above board, but right from the start Seiger and he understood each other perfectly. It was too good an opportunity to miss. By September Vasson had doubled his stock, rented a decent apartment, and bought himself two new suits.

  This time Vasson was determined not to fall into any traps. He would go carefully, always consolidating, always spreading the risks. The best way to spread the risks was, he realised, to branch out into other businesses. He started looking for opportunities. The girls racket was no good: everyone was on to that one and anyway half the girls had developed a bad case of patriotism and wouldn’t go with Germans. The clubs were no good either; they were still wrapped up too tight.

  For a while he settled for dealing in a wider range of goods – more foods, more imported goods – but he still wasn’t happy: if for some reason he was closed down he would have nothing to fall back on.

  Then he stumbled on the answer, accidentally.

  He’d been tipped off about a large quantity of lingerie in a warehouse in the southern suburbs. He’d never been to the place before, he didn’t know who ran it, but that didn’t matter. He’d discovered that, when offered cash on the spot, people were quite happy to do business with him. This one would be no exception.

  But he was wrong. The warehouse was run by an old Jew called Goldberg, and Goldberg did not want to do business with him. Not on any terms, not at any price. He would not say why; instead he was belligerent and rude. He called Vasson a leech and a verminous parasite. He shut the door in his face.

  Vasson went to Seiger; Seiger arranged a meeting with a smart young man in the black uniform of the SS; the smart young man took him to see a man in civilian clothes, someone by the name of Kloffer. They met in an apartment in the Rue Lalo behind the elegant Avenue Foch.

  Kloffer was different from the Germans Vasson had met before. He was quiet, cool and slim, like a snake. He hardly spoke while Vasson told him about the Jew with the warehouse full of lingerie. He merely nodded slightly and, when Vasson had finished, gave a small bow and left.

  Kloffer left so quickly that there was no time to ask questions. Vasson was left in the air. He felt slightly cheated. Would they do anything? He wasn’t sure. And, if they did, would they tell him?

  After a few days Vasson could bear the uncertainty no longer. He drove to the Jew’s warehouse to see if anything had happened. As he neared the place he felt a delicious sense of anticipation, as if he was about to be given a treat. He was not disappointed. The doors of the warehouse were open, the interior gaping and empty. The glass in the windows had exploded from the force of a fire which, from the scorch marks on the walls, must have raged for hours. Vasson was pleased; the Germans must have been impressed by what he told them. As for Goldberg, he’d deserved it. He hadn’t listened.

  Vasson expected to see Kloffer again, but he heard nothing. He was disappointed. He wanted to see Kloffer again, to talk about the raid, to go over the details and to remind Kloffer that it was he, Vasson, who had provided the information. He wanted his contribution to be recognised; yes, damn it, and properly acknowledged. But there was nothing.

  During the rest of September and October the Germans dropped their softly-softly approach to the population: the honeymoon was over. There were arrests of communists, trade unionists and leftist-intellectuals; the bread ration was low, unemployment was high.

  In November there was more trouble: a mass demonstration by students in the Champs Elysées on Armistice Day. The Germans arrested the ringleaders for left-wing activities.

  Every week Vasson went to meet Seiger. They always met in a small bar near the Porte de Clichy. The place had two advantages for Vasson: no-one knew him there and it was near the rented garage where he kept his stock.

  Early in December Vasson bought a batch of high-quality stockings off a little shopkeeper in the vingtième. He decided to offer them straight to Seiger. He would ask for cigarettes in return; cigarettes always sold well and at the moment they were fetching particularly high prices.

  He walked into the bar feeling excited, as he always did. He enjoyed doing business. It was lovely and clean and definite. He liked thrashing out the terms with Seiger, playing the game they always played: hedging and evading, stating and overstating, until finally the bargain was struck. There was nothing like it.

  But today there was no Seiger. He searched the small bar for the familiar uniform; but it was missing. How irritating! Vasson did not like arrangements to go wrong.

  Vasson took another look round the bar. No, there was no Seiger. Instead – Vasson’s heart gave a small thud – instead there was Kloffer. He was sitting alone at a table. He gave no sign that he had recognised Vasson. Vasson looked round again, wondering what to do. Should he go up to Kloffer and admit he knew him? Or should he ignore him? He decided it would be safer to ignore him. He went to the bar and sat down. The proprietor sniffed at him, ‘Your friend not here today then?’

  ‘No.’

  The man sneered, ‘Well, that’s a loss, isn’t it?’

  Vasson ignored him. Another cheap patriot. He ordered a coffee, then changed his mind and asked for a pastis. He looked round at Kloffer. The German was sitting staring out of the window. Vasson downed his drink and, as he put the empty glass on the counter, he saw Kloffer get up and leave the bar. Vasson paid and followed the German out.

  When Vasson reached the street he looked quickly up and down. Kloffer was disappearing round a corner to the left. Vasson walked quickly to the corner and rounded it. There was a black Citroën beside the kerb. Kloffer was waiting at the open rear door. There were two men in raincoats and fedora hats sitting in the front. They might as well have a sign on the side saying ‘Gestapo’. Kloffer said, ‘Get in.’

  Vasson got in followed by Kloffer. The car sped south, towards the Etoile. Vasson asked nervously, ‘May I ask where we’re going?’

  Kloffer stared straight ahead. For a moment Vasson thought he wouldn’t answer, then he said, ‘To my office.’

  Vasson wondered where that would be. But he didn’t ask. There was something about Kloffer’s manner that discouraged questions.

  The car rounded the Etoile and turned into the Avenue Foch. Vasson suddenly realised where they must be going and his mouth went dry. The Gestapo and the SS lived down here: the street was fast getting the pseudonym Avenue Boches. But why were they bringing him here? A nasty suspicion flashed through his mind and for a moment he thought: They’re busting me, they’re going to close me down. Then he decided not. If they were busting him they would have got him at the garage and taken his stock and ransacked his apartment.

  The car drove under the archway of number 82 and stopped. This was the lion’s mouth. It was well-known: Gestapo Headquarters. Its two neighbours, numbers 84 and 86, were occupied by the SS.

  Vasson followed Kloffer up the stairs to the third floor. When they finally entered a large room with deep carpets and a large empire-style desk, he felt calmer. It was difficult to believe that anything terrible could happen in these surroundings. Vasson
looked at the luxurious décor and realised that Kloffer was important.

  Kloffer took off his hat and coat and told Vasson to sit down. When they were both seated Kloffer stared straight at Vasson and asked, ‘What is your name?’

  Vasson almost let the surprise show on his face, but he covered it quickly and said, ‘You know my name: it’s Jean-Marie Biolet.’

  ‘No, your real name.’

  ‘That is my real name.’

  A flicker of impatience crossed Kloffer’s face. ‘Come now, I know it is not.’

  Vasson thought quickly: How? How did he know? It must be a guess. Vasson had never been taken in by the police, not once; no-one had checked his identity since he arrived in Paris.

  It had to be a bluff.

  ‘It’s my real name,’ Vasson repeated.

  ‘We could get the préfecture to check it. Somehow I don’t think your thumb print would match that on your identity card.’

  Vasson shrugged. ‘So check them. You’d be wasting your time. I am Jean-Marie Biolet and I come from St Etienne.’ He added, ‘Anyway, what does it matter? Either I can help you or I can’t.’

  Kloffer’s sharp rat-like eyes fell to the pad on the desk in front of him. Vasson realised he wasn’t going to press the matter. Thank God.

  ‘Very well,’ Kloffer said, ‘I want someone. I think you can find him for me.’

  Vasson felt the relief flooding over him. So that was all they wanted – a person. It was to be a job like the one he’d done on Goldberg. Find and identify. Simple. But he was puzzled. Who could it be? He didn’t know anyone these people might want.

  Kloffer continued, ‘The person we want is a communist agitator by the name of Cohen. He is a professor at the Sorbonne but has recently … gone to ground.’

  ‘But I’ve never heard of Cohen, I don’t know Cohen …’

  ‘Exactly. You will be perfect for the job.’

  Vasson began to understand. This was no Goldberg job. This wasn’t a simple matter of pointing out an insignificant Jewish wholesaler, it was more, much more.

  Vasson said stiffly, ‘But why me?’

  ‘Oh, come now. You will be excellent for the job. You have all the qualifications. You have already proved that.’

  ‘But supposing I fail …?’

  Kloffer looked impatient. ‘Oh you won’t do that. I have a feeling about you.’ He stabbed a finger at Vasson. ‘I have a feeling that you will be very good at the little tasks I ask you to do.’

  ‘But … where would I start? How will I find him?’

  Kloffer smiled thinly. ‘We have some information. Cohen is a history professor at the Sorbonne. He is also the leader of a communist cell. We have detained most of them. Now I want Cohen himself. We picked up his girlfriend the other day, her name’s Marie Boulevont. We released her but—’ Kloffer cleared his throat and looked unhappy ‘– but we lost her. She was living at 56, Rue Brezin. Now she too has disappeared.’

  In other words, Vasson thought, they’ve made a mess of it.

  ‘We will give you a new name and student’s papers and anything else that might be useful. Normally we would wait for someone to tell us where Cohen is, but in this case we want him in a hurry. As soon as possible. You understand?’

  Vasson was trying to sort out his thoughts. He’d expected all kinds of things. But this … It would be difficult, and very dangerous. Political activists would not be kind if they caught him. Christ, they’d kill him without a second thought.

  The money would have to be good, bloody good. Vasson looked up sharply: the German hadn’t mentioned that.

  Vasson said, ‘I’d want good money for the job, in francs or gold, on delivery. What are you offering?’

  Kloffer looked amused. ‘Oh, a great deal. Freedom from arrest. Your little black market operation is, after all, totally illegal. It could get you into a lot of trouble. Also freedom from investigation into your background and your – what shall we say? – dubious identity.’

  Vasson waited. Kloffer said, ‘That is all.’

  God! Kloffer was nothing but a cheap blackmailer. He might have known. The humiliation burnt Vasson’s cheeks. He thought: No, you’re bloody well not going to get away with it.

  Vasson looked calmly down at his hands and said casually, ‘No.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean that I don’t accept your terms. I have nothing to hide. You can close me down if you like.’

  Kloffer stared across the desk.

  Vasson glanced out of the window. ‘Now if we were to come to a sensible arrangement I could do a first-class job …’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘I mean that you could get any rat to do a mediocre job on those terms. But me? If I am paid a decent rate for the job, I will do it well. And quickly. If not …’ he shrugged. ‘If not, well, it would take you a lot longer to find your man, wouldn’t it? Bust me if you wish – it really makes no difference.’ Vasson stared him straight in the eye and thought how it would, of course, make a hell of a difference: it would put him right back in shit street without any money.

  Kloffer put his fingertips together and touched his lips thoughtfully. ‘How much would you require, Monsieur Biolet?’

  ‘Fifty thousand francs.’

  ‘Out of the question.’

  ‘How much are you offering?’

  ‘Ten.’

  They settled on ten. Vasson didn’t want to argue. He didn’t want Kloffer to lose too much face, otherwise he’d bear a grudge. Anyway, Vasson thought, I’m bloody lucky to get anything at all. It would be silly to push his luck.

  He could always ask for more next time.

  He knew there would be a next time. The job was right up his street. He liked everything about it except the idea of getting caught: that terrified him. But the rest? Yes, very nice.

  He liked the idea of a new identity, a new personality which, after the job, would disappear without trace. It was neat. A clean out, with no come-back. It was a challenge, too, something to get to grips with. It would give him a chance to show what he could do. He liked that.

  And then there was the money, the lovely money.

  The next day Vasson went back to the Avenue Foch, to an anonymous office on the ground floor, and collected a complete set of cards covering identity, student status, food ration, tobacco ration and military service, all of them in the name of Legrand. When Vasson saw the cards he went white with anger: the cards were hard, clean and unscuffed. They looked brand new, which was exactly what they were. He wondered if Kloffer was trying to nail him, or just being stupid. It was probably stupidity fuelled by the German passion for efficiency.

  Another thing: there was no student enrolment card, which was necessary for the Sorbonne. Furthermore the card would be inspected frequently, so it would have to be genuine.

  He went up to the third floor and told Kloffer what he wanted.

  Kloffer was not pleased. ‘What you ask is very difficult as well as unnecessary.’

  ‘It’s essential.’

  Kloffer nodded curtly. It was agreed.

  Vasson returned to the ground floor and settled down to wait because he didn’t want to be seen going in and out of the building too often. Eventually, late in the afternoon, a sergeant called him into the ground floor office and passed him a new set of cards. The name was now Philippe Roche, and the student enrolment card was obviously genuine. Vasson guessed the other cards were genuine too: they were soiled and scuffed. He was uneasy again: suppose this Philippe Roche had been at the Sorbonne? Suppose Vasson bumped into someone who knew him?

  Vasson looked up. ‘Is this person known at the university?’

  The sergeant smiled. ‘No.’

  ‘Did he ever go there?’

  The sergeant eyed him lazily. ‘No he never went there. He never started his course.’

  Vasson nodded. He didn’t want to know any more.

  On the way back to Montmartre Vasson bought some slacks, two casual shirts, two sweaters an
d a donkey jacket from a cheap shop. Back in his room he crumpled and dirtied them a little, then changed, leaving all his own clothes behind. He packed a small bag containing his washing things and some pyjamas, then left. He went straight to the Left Bank and wandered around the bookstalls beside the river until he found some old textbooks on French history. At a stationery shop nearby he bought a couple of blank pads, some pencils and a pen. Finally he wandered into Montparnasse and found a room to rent.

  Then he was ready.

  He would start with the girl, the girl who was meant to be a special friend of Cohen’s.

  But first he spent a morning just walking round the Sorbonne and the Left Bank cafés, watching the students, listening to their conversation. It was fairly easy to gauge their mood: most of them were angry, either about the Armistice Parade arrests, or the disappearance of university staff, or the curbs on student activities. Some even spoke of countermeasures, of demonstrations and open defiance.

  They were incredibly naive, Vasson decided. They talked openly, in public places, without realising the need for discretion. Beyond lowering their voices they had no sense of secrecy, no idea that informers might be listening. Vasson thought: This could be easier than I imagined.

  In the afternoon he went to 56, Rue Brezin, the last known address of the girlfriend, Marie Boulevont. Now that Kloffer’s watchers had gone, she might have returned. But she hadn’t. The concierge hadn’t seen her for weeks and didn’t know where she’d moved to. Vasson wasn’t surprised. The girl would have been stupid to return.

  He would have to start from scratch then. In a strange way he didn’t mind. It was more of a challenge that way.

  The next morning he examined the mass of notice boards in the history department at the Sorbonne and decided to go to the lecture on Enlightened Despotism in the Eighteenth Century. It was well attended and he had a job getting in. The lecture was long and tedious. Vasson spent his time looking at the hundreds of faces around the hall. They all looked the same: like communists. Finally, when the lecture was over and everyone was crowding through the exits, he chose a group of five students who were talking heatedly. They looked as if they might be political types. He followed them to a café on the Boulevard St Germain.