THIRTEEN

Duchene placed the telephone receiver back in its hook. A coin rattled through the machine and fell into the return tray. He took it and sat for a moment on the narrow bench inside the phone booth. He fished out his half cigarette and lit it. The rain had resumed; he knew no one would come out to make a call in this weather, not unless they were desperate.

Lucien had not been at home. The housekeeper who lived in the small apartment on the ground floor of his building had been brisk when taking Duchene’s message. No doubt Lucien kept her in chocolate for agreeing to take his messages, but the task was obviously wearing thin.

Duchene had made sure to express his appreciation to the housekeeper. If it weren’t for her, he’d have next to no chance of contacting the smuggler.

He checked his watch. Six p.m. Still too early for the brothels and clubs to open. He could eat and then make his journey out into the night.

Pulling up his collar and firmly securing his hat, he stepped out into the rain. Few people were on the street, and he cursed himself for leaving his umbrella back at the apartment. Splashing through the downpour, he reached a nearby café, Adelelmus, and huddled at the edge of its awning beside a large group. He knew the owner, Marcel. Before the occupation, Marcel would have joined the rest outside on a day like this, serving coffee into cups held by cold, damp hands and offering the women dry towels. That ruddy-cheeked host had always been quick to refuse payment and keen to offer a moment of respite. Looking over the heads of the crowd, Duchene could see him now, a different man, sitting at the back of the empty café in front of an empty patisserie counter, sipping water and staring at the ceiling.

On the opposite side of the street was a man who had remem­bered his trench coat – the only person standing still in the rain.

Duchene left the shelter of the café awning and hurried down the street towards the nearest Métro. Moving from awning to awning, he glanced over his shoulder. He must be paranoid, spooked by his time in the Gestapo headquarters.

But the man in the trench coat was still on the street behind him. He was being followed.

There was only one place in all of Paris he could go without revealing another source for the Gestapo to arrest: home. A place that was no secret to anyone with access to a phone book.

Returning to his apartment, he found the hot water was not working in his meagre shower. A visit to the basement revealed the boiler was out of fuel. It seemed unwise to try to restock it, with supplies in question and winter still some months away.

After a quick cold shower, he rewarded himself with the last of his tea. He eyed the last bottle of cognac but rebuked himself. It was there for trade; it would be worth more in meals than as a drink.

His larder hadn’t changed, and he took out the can of compressed meat and two small potatoes. He diced them and used them to cook up a stew, adding a little dried stock and some stale bread to thicken it. It sufficed.

He held back on eating all the tinned beef, reserving some to add to his egg for breakfast. Besides, he knew too well from his time in the trenches the perils of eating too much canned meat on an empty stomach.

After washing his plate, he left his apartment and crossed the hallway to Camille’s door. She answered within a few taps. ‘Auguste.’

She was wearing her bed jacket. The collar was loose around her shoulder, and he could see a dark-green corselette contrasting with her pale skin. She smelt of rosehips and foundation powder.

As she stood on her toes to kiss his cheek, he found himself remaining there, her face against his. ‘I saw your note last night,’ he said.

‘I heard you come and go, during the curfew. I was worried.’

He held her against him. She remained there, pressing her warmth into him. ‘It was important.’

‘So important to risk being sent to a work camp?’ she whispered. ‘That’s what they’re doing now. No reprimand, no lock-up overnight. For breaking the curfew.’

‘I’ll be all right. Faber gave me a letter – he’s asked me to find someone.’

‘Oh.’ Camille stepped away. The concern on her face trans­itioned to something else. Sadness? No, disappointment.

‘I was wondering if I could use your phone? I can’t use the one downstairs. It’s complicated. I can pay?’

She stepped back from the door. ‘Then come in.’

‘I need to make the call in private. Would you mind waiting in my apartment while I do it?’

She frowned.

‘I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important. I’m sorry.’

Without another word, she crossed the hallway and pushed his door shut.

He walked into her living room and sat on her settee. Looking over to her bedroom, he could see that he’d interrupted her preparations for the night ahead. A green evening dress had been carefully laid out on the edge of her bed, and on her nightstand was the last of her makeup and perfumes.

Picking up her phone, he dialled Lucien. He planned the brief note he’d ask the housekeeper to take, but to his surprise, Lucien answered.

‘It’s me, Auguste,’ Duchene said.

Lucien laughed. ‘Are you checking up on me? I saw your message. I’ll be there. On time.’

‘We’ll need to meet another way. Can you get a car, come and get me from my place at eight tonight?’

‘I’m flattered you think I have access to these resources.’

‘I can pay with trade. I need the car.’

‘Auguste –’

‘Two cartons of Ecksteins. Twenty packets. They’re all I have left.’

‘It’s not that I don’t want to. But at this short notice it’s going to be hard for me to convince the owner to let me borrow it.’

‘I also have one last bottle of cognac. Would that do it?’

‘That could get you food for a week. What are you going to do? Put aside your dislike for Max and have all your meals at Marienne’s? Are you sure it’s that important?’

‘I might not have a week. Can you get the car for the cognac?’

‘Yes, that and the cigarettes will do it. Honestly, you need to make better deals. That was their only child, Auguste, almost lost to them forever. You could have taken a car as payment – you could have taken two. Then you wouldn’t be in this predicament. In fact, because we split it all fifty-fifty, we’d both be better off.’

Duchene patted his jacket pockets, then trousers, for a cigarette. Nothing. ‘See you at eight. On the dot. And keep the engine running.’ He hung up and placed a franc beside the phone.

He tapped on the door to his apartment before pushing it open. Camille was sitting on the edge of his couch between a pile of English poets and a complete collection of Victor Hugo. ‘When this thing is over,’ she said, ‘you need to buy some new bookshelves.’

‘I know.’

‘Not that I didn’t appreciate you burning some of these as fuel last winter.’

‘I’m sorry about before. I’m caught up in something. Three things, really, and I don’t want to drag you into them.’

‘Oh, please. I play piano for Germans. Drunk Germans. What I already know could have me executed. That’s the thing about being a woman over a certain age. They assume I’m harmless – too old to be a honey trap – and so the talk flows freely.’

‘They don’t appreciate you.’

‘Not in that way – not as a threat. It’s a relief. I’d feel better away from their attention entirely.’

‘If you want to stay away from German attention, the less you know the better.’

She nodded, her face softening, and reached into her pocket for a cigarette. ‘You can’t protect everyone,’ she said as she lit it.

‘May I?’ he asked as she was putting the packet away.

She passed him her lit cigarette and started a new one for herself.

Sitting on the edge of the couch beside her, he said, ‘I know I can’t protect everyone. But I can try to protect Marienne and you.’

Camille placed a hand on his face.

‘I’m sorry I didn’t visit you last night,’ he said, keeping his eyes on hers.

‘Your mistake. I was drunk. Lonely.’

‘I’m here now.’

‘I’m not your lover,’ she said.

‘I know.’ He moved to take his hand away.

She kept it held to the side of her face. ‘Not your wife.’

‘I know.’

She leant forward, and guided him slowly backward to lay on the couch. Books fell from the chair to the floor; others she brushed aside as she moved to straddle his hips. She took one last drag on the cigarette before dropping it into an empty wineglass on the ground beside him. He did the same, and as he brought his gaze back to her face, he found she was close to him now. Her blue eyes were looking down into his. ‘Open your mouth,’ she said.

When he parted his lips, she kissed him, her tongue pushing its way into his mouth. In a moment, her hand was behind his head, pressing him towards her. He found himself doing the same, his hands at her back, holding her down against him, her breasts soft on his chest, back arching her hips to press on his.

He said, ‘It’s been …’

Placing her hands over his lips, she smiled and shook her head. She unbuttoned his trousers, positioned herself on top of him and started to grind against him, her eyes bright as she looked at him. She let out a soft groan when he felt her clitoris rubbing against him, and she raised her head to the ceiling. The bed jacket slipped around her waist. Her corselette exposed, she looked down to readjust – but, seeing something in his face, instead reached in and cupped out a breast.

At this, he started to swell. She squeezed her nipple. As he sat up and sucked on her breast, she laughed and moaned. He had done as he was bidden.

Adjusting again, she brought him inside her, moving without losing the rhythm of her rocking. He rocked as well, his hands on her lower back, mirroring her. She placed her hands on his chest, her movements becoming more urgent. The blood started to fall from his erection; sliding his hand between them, he gripped its base. This provided her with something further to grind against, and soon her face was flushed red. It took only moments before she convulsed and shook, pressing herself hard against him. She kissed him again as he moved his hand from his now flaccid penis. She lay there with him in her.

‘Camille …’

‘I enjoyed that. Shall we try something more? For you?’

He was tempted. But her satisfaction had been achieved, and it lingered around them, warm and complete.

‘I’m happy where I am. But thank you.’

They remained on the couch, holding one another, as the daylight faded in the apartment around them, shadows growing. As if by some primal instinct, Camille relit her cigarette. Bringing the wineglass with her to tap ash into, she nuzzled her back up against him. ‘Are you in danger, Auguste?’

‘Danger?’

‘Is Faber part of this? I saw the way he was talking to you at Marienne’s dinner party.’

Duchene took the cigarette from her hand, inhaled and let the smoke remain in his lungs. He spoke as he exhaled. ‘He is involved. Am I in danger? Maybe. All I know is that if he’d never entered our lives, we’d be a lot safer.’

‘I don’t like him.’

‘You’re right not to. The charm, the eloquence, it’s all artifice. He’s savage.’

‘And Marienne – is that why you’re helping him?’

‘Yes. She can hate me all she wants, but she’s not safe until I do this.’