Night Sky (93 page)

The colour scheme was black, beige, and gold. Very striking. To soften the effect there were exotic plants everywhere, between the booths, hanging from the ceiling, around the light fittings. No-one had ever used plants before.

Vasson had overspent his budget, but it had been worth it.

Already everyone was talking about the place. At the opening the cage would be covered with a drape, then, accompanied by appropriate music, it was going to be unveiled to reveal a girl painted with gold. Her skin, that was. Apart from a G-string she’d be wearing nothing else at all. It would be a sensation.

He turned and hurried through the club into his office, a small room at the rear. There were still a thousand things to do before the opening, and there was only one day left.

Half an hour later there was a tap on the door.

‘Yes.’ Vasson barked impatiently.

The new barman poked his nose into the room. ‘Someone to see you.’

‘Who?’

‘Wouldn’t say. But something important.’

Vasson sighed. ‘Very well.’

A minute later the barman showed someone in. Vasson looked up and stiffened.

It was the stupid old boy – the count.

Vasson swore to himself. He should never have put this address on the bill of sale; he had known it was a mistake when he did it. He said quietly, ‘Whatever you want, forget it.’

The count smiled inanely. ‘But I bring you good news.’ He sat down in a brand new chair.

Vasson said quickly, ‘I don’t think so.’ And, standing up, called for the barman again.

‘I wouldn’t be hasty if I were you. I bring you news from the past.’

Vasson suddenly felt cold. Slowly, he sat down again. ‘The past?’

‘Yes. I bring you information which I think you will be very happy to have.’ The count grinned like a cat.

Vasson’s mouth felt dry. Slowly, he licked his lips. ‘Well? Go on.’

The count said triumphantly, ‘Someone’s looking for you!’

‘Oh yes?’

‘Someone who knew you some time ago.’

The fear clutched at Vasson’s heart, but he kept his face impassive. He asked quietly, ‘This person found me through the car?’

‘Yes. Knew you’d bought it. Must have seen you at the wheel perhaps?’

‘Perhaps. And who is this person?’

‘Ahhh. That’s the question, isn’t it?’

The old bastard wanted money then. Vasson considered the alternatives. He could beat the information out of him, there was the gun of course, or …

‘I don’t think the information will be worth enough to pay for.’

‘No?’ enquired the count sweetly. ‘But on the other hand, maybe it will.’

Vasson picked at his fingers. ‘If I
was
interested, then what would you be able to tell me?’

‘Name. Address.’

‘How do I know the name and address would be real?’

‘No assurance. But I think they would be.’

‘Is it just the one person?’

The count considered. ‘I think I can say it’s probably only the one.’

Vasson nodded slowly. ‘Did the person say he’d definitely seen me in the car?’

‘Ahh. Really I feel unable to answer …’ The count looked supercilious, like a complacent schoolmaster.

Sickening old sybarite. Vasson observed him with distaste. But the choices were limited. He
had
to know. ‘I’ll offer you five hundred.’

The count shook his head and laughed. ‘Really! Really! Five thousand would be a little nearer, don’t you think?’

It was more than the club would take in a good night. ‘You’re out of your mind!’

But he wasn’t and Vasson knew it. Eventually they settled on four thousand.

Vasson handed over the cash and, his heart hammering, asked with difficulty, ‘The information?’

‘A girl. Named Lescaux. Dark hair. Mid- to late twenties. Her address is Hôtel Hortense. It’s a cheap place in the
treizième
. She came to see me today. She had an old photograph of you. I didn’t recognise you at first – the face was unmarked – but then I saw a similarity in the eyes and realised it must be you after all.’ He paused, watching Vasson’s reaction.

Eventually Vasson said, ‘What … What led her to you?’

‘The advertisement.’

‘So she never saw me at all … in the car?’

‘She didn’t say.’

Vasson stood up stiffly and murmured, ‘Get out and don’t let me ever see your face in here again.’

The count needed no second invitation and disappeared rapidly out of the door.

Vasson thought carefully for five minutes, then, taking his coat from the peg, slipped out through the back door into the night.

T
HE ADDRESS WAS
somewhere near Pigalle; Julie had realised that the moment she’d read it.

The street, when she found it, looked familiar and she remembered that she’d walked down it a week or so before. It was narrow and very dark, except for the occasional blaze of light from a small bistro. She went slowly, keeping close to the side and pausing now and then to look for the indistinct, sometimes invisible, street numbers on the shopfronts and door frames.

When she was almost there she stopped in a doorway and checked the numbers again. It was just two away now. Her heart beating in her ears, she looked out along the street. Next door was a shop, closed and shuttered. Then, beyond, a dull gold pool of light spilling out of a doorway on to the pavement.

That must be it. She peered into the darkness. There was a sign hanging over the door. It wasn’t illuminated, but she could just make out some sort of painting on it. Above, there was a name. She wasn’t sure, but it looked like The Golden Cage. A club then? How strange. She could have sworn the place hadn’t been there before.

She drew a deep breath and, crossing the street, walked past on the opposite side. Without being too obvious, she took a good look. It was definitely a club. But not, apparently, open for business. The door was open but there was a plank straddling the entrance and, just inside, some kind of notice on a board.

She went on walking, resisting the temptation to look back over her shoulder. She saw a deep doorway ahead and slipped quickly inside. She moistened her lips and waited for her heart to stop hammering. Then she peered back round the corner.

Nothing. No-one had seen her. She relaxed a little.

What next? It would be madness to go in, in case Vasson was there. So she must wait; wait and watch.

Assuming this
was
the right address.

The count’s behaviour had been so extraordinary she still didn’t know what to make of it. At first, when he didn’t return, she’d given him the benefit of the doubt, but after trudging wearily into the railway station at the end of a long walk from the château she had found the taxi driver waiting there, and slowly, the truth had come out. The count had done it on purpose. But
why
? What could have made him want to run away like that? Perhaps, she thought wearily, he was Vasson’s friend and partner. Or perhaps she’d got this far only to be tricked and sent on a wild goose chase. This club might be nothing to do with Vasson at all.

It was very worrying.

She moved to a corner of the doorway where she could watch the club while keeping in shadow. The street was getting busier now as the evening trade began to pick up. A man spotted her and came into the doorway to proposition her. Julie got rid of him quickly enough – he was as nervous as a mouse – but she knew she’d got away lightly. Next time it might not be so easy. She remembered she still had a lot of money on her – over two thousand from the money the
Patron
’s friends had given her. She wished now she’d left it at the hotel.

Someone was coming out of the club. Julie stared. It was a man dressed in baggy clothes with a beret on his head. He paused in the doorway, pulling on a jacket, then called over his shoulder. Another man appeared carrying a workman’s bag, and the two of them walked off in the direction of Pigalle.

She relaxed again. Workmen. That would explain why the club wasn’t open.

After that there was no-one for several hours. The time passed slowly. She was ravenously hungry; for once she’d forgotten to put any bread in her pockets.

By ten-thirty she was numb with cold. Then, just before eleven, there was a movement outside the club. She stiffened. Four or five people were coming out. She peered forward, trying to see their faces in the darkness.

Workmen again: most wore old clothes and carried tool bags. Another man appeared, well dressed and smoother looking than the others. He moved the plank, turned off the lights, closed the front door and locked up. He was very tall, with thick, rather bushy fair hair.

It wasn’t Vasson. None of them was Vasson.

The men walked off. The club looked deserted; clearly, it was closed for the night.

She should go back to the hotel and get some sleep. There was no point in staying here.

She hesitated, then decided to take a quick look. It wouldn’t take a minute and it couldn’t possibly do any harm. She stepped out of the doorway and, looking quickly from left to right, crossed the street and walked up to the front of the club. She peered at the sign. Yes: The Golden Cage. Below, pasted on the door, was a notice. The club was opening on the 14th November. She realised with a slight shock that the 14th was the following night.

What a stroke of luck! If Vasson had any connection with the place, he was bound to be there … She could stand in the shadows and watch until he arrived. But would she recognise him at a distance? From the count’s description he was terribly scarred.

She tensed and looked quickly over her shoulder. The street was darker now, full of deep shadows. Apart from the faint drone of traffic the only sound was the distant beat of music. She started to walk. Suddenly her hackles rose and she shivered slightly. She walked faster, an uncomfortable feeling in her spine, until she was safely into the brightness of Place Pigalle.

She took the Métro across the city, thinking hard.

An idea came into her mind. She should get one of the
Patron
’s friends to take her to the opening. Yes! That would be perfect. She could imagine it all: arriving with all the other guests, looking into the scarred face, knowing immediately it was him, seeing the shock on his face …

In the next moment she knew it would never work. It would be madness to let Vasson see her.

No, the best thing would be to identify him from a position of safety, somewhere close enough but not too close. Then once she was certain that it
was
him she would tell – who? The
Patron
’s friends. Yes, or the Resistance. Either group would kill him straight away.

The police would be too kind – or would they? No, perhaps it would be better to let him sweat through a long trial and the fruitless pleas for clemency before he was taken out and shot in cold blood. That way he would have more time to think about what he had done.

It was a fifteen-minute walk from the Métro to the hotel. Tonight it seemed longer because she was dog tired, but finally its dreary façade came into view. The Hôtel Hortense was extremely modest, which was why she’d chosen it. It was so modest, in fact, that there was no night porter. The front door was locked at eleven, after which the guests were expected to let themselves in using a key for which they had to pay a generous deposit, in advance.

Julie trudged up to the door and fumbled in her bag. She swore quietly. The key wasn’t in the bottom, nor in the side compartment. She looked nervously up and down the dark deserted street. Eventually she found the key wedged inside the pages of her pocket diary. She unlocked the door and went in, closing the door gratefully behind her.

The lobby was lit by a single white light, which cast a cold inhospitable glare over the floor and left the rest of the hall in shadow. Julie walked across to the stairs and started to climb. She’d taken a room on the fourth, topmost, floor because it was cheaper there. In the centre of the staircase there was an ancient cage lift in an open mesh shaft, but like most lifts in Paris at the moment it was usually out of order and she never bothered to try it any more.

The building was quiet. The only sound was the slight creaking of the boards under her feet. The hotel had very few guests – at least Julie hardly ever saw anybody.

She reached the first landing and paused. There was a sound; it was coming from the lobby. A gentle rattling. She realised that someone was trying to open the street door.

She went on, a little faster now, up towards the second floor.

From below there came a faint clang. Someone had closed the lift door. Julie reached the second landing and hurried on. Suddenly the lift machinery burst into action with a loud whine. Julie jumped. The lift wires started humming. The lift was coming up.

She reached the third floor and looked down the central well. The lift was rising steadily towards her, but the top was closed and it was impossible to see inside. She climbed on and, panting slightly, hurried across the top landing to her door. She opened her bag and started to look for the room key.

The lift mechanism whirred louder and louder. The key was nowhere to be found; Julie shook her bag impatiently.