Night Sky Page 17

  He sat at an adjoining table and listened. They were still talking heatedly – about lectures clashing because of the appalling new timetable. Vasson waited impatiently. This group was a dead end, he could sense it. Damn. He would have to think of a surer way.

  Then Vasson realised that their voices had dropped and only the occasional word was reaching him. One of them was saying how terrible something was and the others were agreeing. Vasson strained to hear.

  ‘… he was arrested … that is certain …’

  The voices dropped again and Vasson lost the reply. Then a third voice said, ‘But it’s terrible to sit and do nothing!’

  How right you are, Vasson thought.

  Impulsively he got up and stepped over to the students’ table. ‘I …’ He hovered nervously. ‘I saw you in the lecture … I’m a new student. May I …?’ He indicated his chair and looked suitably uncertain.

  One of the students nodded. Vasson stuttered ‘Thanks’ and drew up his chair. They made room for him and he sat down.

  They stared at him expectantly. Vasson laughed nervously and said, ‘It’s hard to find your way around!’

  They nodded and one, a boy with thick pebble glasses, said, ‘We’ve been here a year and we still can’t find our way round!’

  Vasson smiled anxiously and said, ‘Is there—’ he searched for the words ‘– is there a lot of trouble in the university? I mean, what should one know about?’ He peered round the table earnestly.

  ‘Oh, just don’t get involved in – well, anything political.’

  Vasson nodded violently.

  There was a silence. Vasson looked pensive. ‘And … have there been many arrests?’

  The boy with the pebble glasses sighed. ‘Yes, students and staff. Efforts are made to discover what has happened to them but …’ He trailed off and shrugged.

  Vasson looked grave. ‘I was assigned to Professor Cohen, but now I am to be in another group. Did he—? Was he … taken?’

  Pebble-glasses shrugged. ‘Nobody’s sure what happened to him. It’s thought he’s in hiding, but I wouldn’t know.’

  Vasson stared at him and realised with disappointment that he was telling the truth.

  It was worth one more shot. He said, ‘Also I was given the name of a friend of his, by a friend of my family. But – well, it’s very upsetting, because she too has been taken or—’ He shook his head bitterly ‘– or disappeared. And I don’t know what to tell this friend. It’s all very tragic, very tragic.’

  ‘Who’s Cohen’s friend?’

  ‘Ah!’ Vasson made a show of looking through his pockets as if for a scrap of paper which he couldn’t find. By an effort of concentration he suddenly remembered the name. ‘Er. Oh yes, Yes, it was Marie, Marie Boulevont. That was it!’

  One asked, ‘Marie Boulevont?’

  Vasson stared vacantly into the distance and nodded slowly.

  They were shaking their heads. Vasson stood up, still saying, ‘Very sad, very sad.’ He added brightly, ‘Well, thank you for telling me the form. See you again soon!’

  Damn.

  He would have to find a better way. There was only one problem: he couldn’t think of one.

  Damn.

  The next day he looked more carefully round the lecture room and chose a serious-looking student of about twenty-seven. He looked much more the type: thoughtful and politically committed. But the student went back to his rooms and stayed there all day. It was another dead end.

  The following day was Friday. There was no major history lecture that day but a series of smaller seminars on specialist subjects. Vasson thought: What would a communist be studying? He decided on European History from 1860 to 1930, the period covering the Russian Revolution.

  There were only thirty students in the seminar. Vasson looked casually round the room a couple of times, taking a careful look at each student. One, he noticed, was staring at him. He was about twenty-two, with short curly hair and glasses. His stare was intense and hard; he was summing Vasson up. When their eyes met the student looked away and a few seconds later Vasson saw him exchange an almost imperceptible glance with another student across the room. Vasson felt a quickening of the pulse. This one was clever and sophisticated enough, that was certain.

  The seminar was about the decline of nineteenth-century liberalism and was interminable. At one point the professor asked each student for a definition of liberalism. Vasson felt a moment of panic. He hadn’t reckoned on that. But in the end it was easy, he just gave a garbled version of two earlier replies, defining it as freedom of the individual from excessive central control. As he spoke he was aware that Curly Head was watching him. When it came to Curly Head’s turn his reply was clipped and informed; he was obviously a thinker. There was also a hint of intolerance and dogma in his speech. He even dared to differ with the professor on a point concerning ‘old’ liberalism versus ‘new’.

  Vasson stiffened: this one was a political animal.

  At the end of the seminar, when they all got up, Vasson stood aside to let Curly Head pass. The student went by with his head averted. But Vasson thought: He knows I’m here, he knows it very well.

  Vasson let Curly Head disappear down the corridor, then asked a student next to him, ‘Who was the one going on about new liberalism?’

  The student was in a hurry. He was irritated at being detained but answered, ‘Eh? Oh, Laval.’

  Vasson picked up Laval-Curly Head as he left the building. It was four, almost dusk. The student was heading south down the broad pavement of the Boulevard St Michel. He was walking fast, his thick woollen coat flapping out behind him, his head thrust forward. Vasson followed at a safe distance, his pace settling into a steady rhythm.

  Quite suddenly Curly Head glanced over his shoulder and looked straight at Vasson. Vasson thought: He’s on to me.

  Curly Head hurried on. Vasson slowed his pace, walking more casually, and made a point of keeping his head down and his eyes on the pavement. At the next corner he turned down a side street, away from the main boulevard. When he guessed he was out of Curly Head’s view he crossed the street and doubled back at a run. At the corner he stopped and looked carefully round until he could see up the length of the boulevard. Curly Head was some way away, still walking fast. Vasson pulled his coat up round his ears and followed. After a few moments Curly Head looked back again, but Vasson stepped quickly behind another pedestrian. This time he was not seen.

  Curly Head walked across the south side of the Jardin du Luxembourg and into the streets of Montparnasse. He looked behind him only once more, just before he turned into a small rooming house. Again, Vasson was certain he hadn’t been seen. He took up station near the house, but on the same side of the street so that he couldn’t be spotted from the windows. It was bitterly cold and after an hour it began to rain.

  Vasson sheltered in a doorway and thought of going back to his own room. But he decided not: the wait wouldn’t do him any harm.

  By seven the feeling had gone in his feet. All he could think about was drinking hot soup and red wine in a warm bistro.

  At almost eight Curly Head came out. It was so dark Vasson almost missed him. Curly Head seemed more relaxed than before and strolled along quite casually. He didn’t go far; just to a café in the next street. Vasson peered through the window. The black-out curtains were too effective and he couldn’t see anything. He went to the door. Here there was a slight crack between the frame and the black cardboard stuck to the inside of the window. Vasson put his eye to the crack and saw that Curly Head had joined a group of people at a table. Vasson thought he recognised two of them; one was the student who had exchanged the glance with Curly Head at the seminar; and the other, a girl, had been there too, sitting at the back.

  Vasson walked away and looked for another café where he might get something to eat and warm up. But there was nowhere. In disgust he settled down to wait in a doorway opposite Curly Head’s café.

  It was a quarter to ten and very col
d when they drifted out. It was too risky to follow Curly Head again and anyway there wasn’t much point: he was probably going straight back to his rooms. Vasson decided on the girl instead; she might be an easier nut to crack. She didn’t live far away. She went straight to a cheap rooming house, rather like the one Curly Head lived in. Nothing was likely to happen that night, Vasson decided. He noted the address and went back to his room to sleep.

  He returned to the girl’s place early, at seven. The girl wouldn’t have gone out yet. He was right: she didn’t emerge until midday. He followed her to the Boulevard St Germain. She went shopping. Vasson began to wonder if this was going to be another dead end, but then she went into a glass-enclosed pavement café and sat at a table on her own. She started to read a book, looking up only to ask for a coffee. She did not look into the street. She obviously wasn’t expecting anyone.

  He went into the café and walked past her table, then doubled back and stooped down to look at her. ‘Hello, aren’t you—? Haven’t we met—?’

  She looked up at him curiously. She was plain, with thick black eyebrows, dark lanky hair and unattractive glasses. Definitely the intellectual type. Brainy but not clever, Vasson decided. She said, ‘Sorry. I don’t remember …’

  Vasson shook his head and introduced himself. ‘No, why should you remember? We only met briefly, ages ago. And then I saw you in the seminar yesterday. I’ve just switched courses, from geography.’

  She squinted at him through her spectacles. ‘Where did we meet first then?’

  ‘Ah, well …’ He looked carefully round the café. ‘Perhaps it’s best to stay at mutual friends, and leave it at that.’

  She said nothing but licked her lips uncertainly.

  Vasson dropped his voice. ‘One can’t be too careful.’

  She nodded and frowned.

  ‘I saw Laval in the seminar too, but I didn’t contact him. Too dangerous. Anyway he may not remember me. Did he mention seeing me yesterday?’

  She shook her head. ‘No … He said nothing.’

  Vasson nodded. ‘Just as well.’

  ‘Shall I mention seeing you? To Jean, I mean.’

  Jean must be Laval. ‘No, no. Best not to. I—’ Vasson tried to look hunted. ‘I have to be very careful …’

  She said in a low voice, ‘One cannot be too careful, that’s for sure.’

  ‘If only more precautions had been taken in the beginning.’

  ‘Yes.’

  A waiter came up and Vasson ordered coffee. He smiled brightly at the girl. ‘I don’t even know your name!’

  For a moment she looked startled, then said quietly, ‘Sophie.’

  ‘What a beautiful name!’ He thought: For such an ugly girl.

  She was pleased. ‘Oh. Thank you!’

  Vasson looked down at the parcels beside her. ‘Been shopping?’

  ‘Yes. My allowance came through – I needed some clothes. There isn’t much in the shops but …’ She laughed and pushed some strands of greasy hair back from her forehead. ‘I found a couple of things.’

  God, she’s plain, Vasson thought, plain and boring. But he felt he should let the conversation continue in the same vein. He bought her another coffee and they talked about her life, her family and the poor opportunities for women in publishing, where she hoped to get a job.

  He listened attentively for twenty minutes, then decided the moment had come. He leant towards her and, looking deep into her eyes, said, ‘I can’t tell you how good it’s been talking to you. I’d love to see you again. Can we meet later, for a bit of food? It would be fun.’ He touched her hand.

  ‘Oh. Yes. I – er – yes.’ There was a blush on her cheeks.

  Vasson hoped he wouldn’t have to keep this up much longer.

  The girl was flustered and confused. She was making a mess of gathering her belongings. Vasson picked a package off the floor and smiled at her. ‘I can see I’m going to have to look after you!’ Her face went scarlet and she looked down at the floor.

  He suddenly looked serious. ‘By the way, perhaps you can tell me—’ He put his hand on her arm. ‘I’ve been a bit out of touch. On purpose, of course. But—’ he lowered his voice to a whisper ‘– I’ve been dying to know … Is Cohen all right, have you heard?’

  Her eyes came straight up to his. She said immediately, ‘He’s all right. He’s safe.’

  Vasson made a show of beating his hand on his forehead. ‘Thank God. Thank God for that!’

  She started to pull on her coat while still in her seat and was soon struggling with a sleeve. Vasson jumped up to help her. When the coat was on he let his arm brush across her shoulders. Then he sat down again and put his face close to hers.

  ‘We’ll win in the end, you know. We will because we must!’

  She nodded emphatically, her eyes shining up at him.

  They stood up. Then he touched her arm and pulled her down into her chair again.

  ‘One thing—’ He frowned. ‘I have reason to believe Marie may be in danger.’

  She gasped. ‘Marie …?’

  He nodded.

  The girl looked at him. ‘Oh no! Why?’

  ‘The word is that they’re looking for her again. I don’t know how to warn her.’

  The girl said, ‘Oh God. She was in a safe house, but now …’ She trailed off unhappily.

  ‘Now—?’

  ‘I’m not sure …’

  ‘I looked for her at the Rue Brezin, but of course she hasn’t been back there.’

  ‘Oh no, she wouldn’t go back there. The Boches have been watching it. It isn’t safe. She’s – Well, I think she may be at Su’s place.’ She used the expression chez Su.

  ‘Su’s.’

  The girl nodded. ‘Yes, Su’s.’ Obviously this Su was well known. Suzanne perhaps?

  ‘Ah … Where do I find Su nowadays?’

  The girl looked at him sharply and stared. A shiver ran up Vasson’s spine. Something was wrong: he’d made a mistake.

  She said, ‘Surely … You must know …’

  He tried again. ‘I just haven’t seen Su for some time … You know how it is …’

  She said slowly, ‘But you are acquainted with her?’

  Vasson smiled. ‘Of course.’

  The girl’s face went sheet white. She got up from the table and, grabbing her possessions, stumbled out. Vasson followed, cursing softly.

  Su? Who the hell was Su?

  When he got out of the cafe he soon spotted the girl, half-running, half-walking down the street. From time to time she twisted round and looked back. She didn’t see Vasson. He guessed she was short-sighted.

  She crossed the boulevard and hurried towards the Sorbonne. She passed the main university building and turned down a narrow back street. Vasson got to the corner and paused. He edged slowly along the last few inches of wall and peered cautiously round.

  The girl was two yards away, coming straight towards him.

  He yanked his head back and sprinted away. He dived into a recessed doorway and pressed his body against it, panting hard.

  The girl came into his field of vision. She looked anxiously up and down the street, then turned on her heel and disappeared.

  He left it five seconds and looked out. No-one. He approached the corner again and peered round.

  She was walking away from him. She began to turn her head. He pulled back.

  He looked again. She had gone.

  He walked towards the spot where she had disappeared.

  There were three doorways in the vicinity. One belonged to a dingy restaurant. He glanced at the name over the door.

  It was called Chez Le Maréchal Suchet.

  Chez Su.

  Vasson groaned inwardly. No wonder she was on to him. Every student must know this place. Su was no lady; Su was a bloody maréchal.

  He wondered what to do next. The girlfriend, Marie Boulevont, might be here. If she was, she’d have to come out some time. But most likely she’d go straight to ground. Damn! He’
d really blown it.

  He decided to wait. There was nothing else to do.

  Half an hour later the girl poked her nose out of the door. She looked carefully up and down the street. Even from several yards away Vasson could see that her face was bright red. She’d probably been crying. She took a last look up the street and disappeared into the doorway. When she came out again there was another girl with her, someone older, prettier, more self-assured. She was carrying a small case. Marie Boulevont?

  Yes, Vasson decided, Marie Boulevont.

  At the end of the street the women stopped, spoke excitedly for a moment and split up. Vasson followed Marie.

  She was clever. He almost lost her twice. At the Boulevard St Germain she took the Metro to the Etoile, then hopped on a bus just as it was leaving. Vasson was lucky to jump on another bus going in the same direction. She got off at Montparnasse, almost back where they’d started. Then she walked again, constantly looking over her shoulder. At one point she dived into a shop. Vasson took a guess and sprinted round the block to the back of the building. There was a tradesman’s entrance. Just as he got there, the door opened and Marie came out.

  Got you! Vasson thought.

  Then she walked again, quickly. She doubled back once more, looked over her shoulder one last time and disappeared into a doorway beside an epicerie.

  Vasson waited uncertainly. He had no idea what this place was. It might be a safe house she was going to use. It might just be a friend’s place. There was no certainty Cohen was there.

  After an hour she came out again. She was nervous. She looked up and down the street, then walked quickly off. She was empty-handed. That meant she had left her case inside. That meant she was coming back.

  Vasson came to a decision. He walked in the opposite direction until he found a telephone. He called Kloffer.

  He said, ‘Just two men – and not with Gestapo written all over them.’