Night Sky (91 page)

This time the barman said, ‘You’re looking for him, eh?’ He eyed her thoughtfully. ‘It doesn’t seem very likely.’

Julie looked at him in surprise. ‘No? Why not?’

‘You don’t look the sort to have mixed with him.’

Julie tensed. ‘You know him?’

The barman took another look at the picture. ‘Used to. Used to work here, the slob.’

‘When? When was he here?’

‘Ohhh. Must have been before the war. Yes, just before …’

‘And since then?’

‘He was around for a while at the beginning of the war, so I heard. Started dealing in specialities. You know, stockings, cigarettes, fancy underwear, that kind of thing …’

‘Then?’

The barman shrugged. ‘Don’t know. He wasn’t seen again.’

‘You’ve heard nothing since?’

He shook his head. ‘Nothing. Not that I’ve asked, you understand. And he wouldn’t exactly be welcome in this place. He half-killed the boss.’ He rolled his eyes.

‘What did he call himself then?’

‘Ah …’ The barman frowned. ‘Can’t remember exactly … Wait a minute. Ah yes … Biolet. That was it. Biolet.’

Yet another name. Julie asked, ‘Where did he live, do you know?’

‘No. Never knew. Never cared. Always changing rooms, I believe.’

Julie racked her brain for more questions. ‘Did he have money in those days?’

The barman laughed. ‘Money! Never. Always broke, he was. Tried to get into the big time, of course, but never made it. A real loser. Too clever-clever, see. No-one around here liked that, not one bit.’

And that was it. He knew nothing more.

Two days later Julie found another person who thought he recognised the photograph. A café proprietor up a steep hill above Pigalle. But he, too, hadn’t seen Biolet for a long time. After some thought he remembered that the last time must have been ’39 or ’40 – before the Occupation. He, too, mentioned that Biolet had always been broke. But he couldn’t remember any more.

After that – nothing.

She had been in Paris fifteen days. And she had nothing.

Wearily she went back to her cheap cheerless hotel in the
treizième
and fell on to the bed, exhausted.

Clubs, cafés … Montmartre, Pigalle … He’d been there all right
before
the war.

But after—? Nothing!

Had he gone away? To another large city?

Perhaps …

Another area. Another name. Another job.

But would he
need
a job? The Germans must have paid him well; he was their most important informer. Yes, he
must
have money, and for the first time in his life!

She opened her eyes wide.

Of course.
That
was the difference. He had
money
.

The big time at last. All the things he’d ever dreamed about. She tried to imagine him with money … dressing well, wearing gold jewellery. Indulging those expensive tastes …

All the things he’d ever dreamed about.

She remembered what the
Patron
had said. Perhaps there had been something in it after all. It was worth a try—

Just one more day. She’d give it one more day.

Julie trudged along the Champs Elysées, looking for the right number. Most of the buildings didn’t seem to have any numbers, but at last she spotted one in small figures high above a doorway; there was still quite a way to go. She eyed a passing bus longingly. It would be quicker and easier by bus, but they cost money and she was running dangerously short.

She was down to her last fifty francs and her train ticket home. In Paris fifty francs would last two days, maybe three if she really spun it out and cut down on her food.

She walked on, watching the numbers. Nearly there. It must be on the next corner …

There was a smart shop selling handbags, a cinema … It must be the next one.

She walked faster. The shop front was clearly visible now. She stopped in front of it and stared.

It was empty. Most of the windows were boarded up. Only one window still had glass in it and that was whitewashed on the inside.

She went up to the window, found a tiny gap in the whitewash, and peered through. There was a large empty showroom, littered with rubbish and a few posters of cars.

She stepped back and looked up. The sign, made of letters fastened on to a marble facia, had largely fallen off. But the shadow of the letters remained. The name of the agents. Then, in small letters: Delage.

She went round to the side. There was a side door, again firmly closed.

Dead end.

She leant against the wall. She’d got this address from a garage. Obviously their information had been a little out of date.

She should try another Delage dealer – if there was one.

She tramped along until she found a post office. She looked up Delage in the telephone directory. Not listed.

Next idea.

None. She felt weak and tired. The thought of pressing on was terribly depressing. She decided to go back to the hotel for a rest. It was a real indulgence: she’d never allowed herself that luxury before. She saw a bus stop and, weakening, caught a bus in the direction of the
treizième
. She began to plan what she’d do when she got there: she’d go mad and buy cheese, fruit
and
bread and take them back to the hotel and eat the lot.

She had to change buses twice. At the second change she was overcome by guilt at her extravagance and decided to walk the last mile or so.

On the way she looked up and saw a garage. Without hesitating she walked straight in. A mechanic was working on a car. She asked, ‘Where would I buy a Delage if I wanted one?’

‘A new one, impossible. They haven’t been making them recently, or hadn’t you noticed?’ he said with heavy irony. ‘A second-hand one …’ He shrugged. ‘Wherever you could find one. There must be plenty about if you have the money.’

She thought: A real help. ‘What about servicing one, then. Where would I go?’

‘Juno’s. Juno’s garage. They’re the only ones who do them nowadays.’ He gave her an address. It was on the other side of the city, near the Bois de Boulogne, back the way she’d come.

She hesitated, thinking of the cheese, fruit and bread, and the nice soft bed, then marched firmly back towards the bus stop.

Juno’s was a large garage full of smart cars in various stages of repair. There was a sporty racing-type car, a limousine, and a long, sleek open-top – all magnificently expensive.

A fierce-looking woman was perched inside a glass booth, guarding the working area. She raised a sliding window and asked sharply, ‘Yes?’

‘I’m looking for a Delage,’ Julie asked.

‘What do you mean
looking
?’

‘I’m looking for someone who might have bought one recently.’

The woman looked Julie up and down and raised her eyebrows. ‘We don’t buy and sell.’

‘I just wanted to ask if you knew of any Delages for sale – or recently sold, in the last few years’.

‘We don’t have records. Look, the answer’s no, and that’s all there is to it.’ She slammed the window shut.

Julie went past her into the garage. The woman spotted her and, pushing up the window again, started yelling. Julie walked briskly on.

She found a mechanic who was working on a long silver touring car. She said, ‘Hello.’

He looked up and smiled appreciatively. ‘Hell-o!’

She admired the car. ‘Lovely. I didn’t know people could still afford things like this.’

‘Not many can! This one’s been locked away all through the war. Now we’re trying to get it going again. Anyway – what can I do for you?’ He had a friendly grin.

‘I want to find someone who owns a Delage.’

The mechanic made an extravagant gesture. ‘For you, I’d buy one myself!’

Julie smiled. ‘If I wanted to buy a Delage where would I look? A second-hand one, I mean.’

‘You want to
buy
one!’ Wiping his hands on a dirty rag, he gave a long low whistle. ‘Well, well …!’

‘No, not me exactly,’ Julie said hastily. ‘In fact I want to trace someone who
may
have bought one. In the last few years.’

He shook his head. ‘You ask a lot … My goodness, it would be difficult to know where to begin! And there aren’t a lot about nowadays. Most of them are still off the road …’ He looked over Julie’s shoulder and made a face. ‘Ooops!’ Julie followed his gaze and saw the fierce-looking woman waddling aggressively in their direction.

Julie said hurriedly, ‘Any ideas?’

‘What about the police? They have a register of all owners.’

‘No – this person wouldn’t be using his own name, you see.’

The mechanic laughed. ‘More and more mysterious!’ The fierce woman panted up to them, prepared for a speech. The mechanic took Julie’s arm and led her quickly away, back towards the main doors. ‘There
is
something called the Delage Society. Well, there
used
to be anyway. I’ve got the address somewhere. Would that be of any use?’

‘Yes please. Anything.’

He opened the door of the glass booth and riffled through some papers on a shelf. He came out with a slim magazine in his hand. ‘Here. They used to send out these things every few months. The address of the organiser will be in there somewhere.’

The fierce woman had followed them and was standing a few feet away, hands on hips, eyes blazing.

The mechanic shrugged apologetically. ‘Better get back to work. Good luck!’ He grinned at her, his expression full of many meanings, all of them nice.

Julie smiled back. He had cheered her up.

A few yards along the street she paused and opening the magazine, glanced through it. On the first inside page there was the name of the publisher and further down, the editor, with an address in Paris.

The editor’s address was on the other side of the city.

She sighed and looked for a bus.

It was an apartment building. There were two long rows of bells with names on them. Some of the names were very faded and she had trouble in reading them, but then she found the editor’s name. He still lived there; it was something at least. She pressed the bell.

There was a buzz. She pressed against the street door and it opened. The apartment was on the fourth floor. When she arrived, breathless, at the head of the stairs a man was standing on the landing, waiting.

The editor of
La Societe des Proprietaries de Delages
was a man of about sixty, who wore shabby clothes and smelled strongly of garlic and old vegetables. He welcomed her warmly. ‘I don’t get many visitors. Please come in. Come in!’

The apartment was none too clean and rather shabby, like its owner.

The editor bounced around like a small boy, offering her a seat and a cup of coffee. Then he sat absolutely still, listening to what she had to say.

He nodded slowly and promised to help all he could. But there was a problem. ‘We had to cease publishing at the beginning of the war,’ he explained. ‘And even before the war, only about half the owners belonged … As for finding out what’s happened to the cars since then – new owner and so on …’ He shook his head. ‘… it would be
difficult
…’

‘This person
might
have been an owner before the war. It’s just possible …’

He shot out of his seat like a jack-in-a-box. ‘Say no more!’ He disappeared into another room and a few minutes later returned in triumph with a dusty box full of yellowing papers. He pulled out the papers and looked at her expectantly. ‘Name?’

‘Vasson. Or Fougères. Or Biolet.’ Even as she said them Julie realised it was hopeless: he wouldn’t be using any of those names nowadays.

As the editor started to leaf through the papers she began to feel a deep despondency. This would never lead anywhere.

After half an hour the editor was satisfied: none of those people had ever been members of his club. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said.

Julie sighed and tried to think. ‘What about buying a second-hand Delage?’ she asked. ‘How would one find one?’

‘Ah! Ahhh!’ The editor looked earnestly at the ceiling as if that could give him the answer. ‘Mmmm. A newspaper. Yes, through a newspaper! That’s about all that’s been published, you see. Though there is
Auto
– I believe that’s kept going after a fashion. Yes, there’s
Auto
too. Here, I’ll give you the address.’ He scampered into the other room and came back with a piece of paper.

Julie got up to go and said wearily, ‘Thank you. You’ve been most helpful.’ At the door she asked. ‘Did you have a Delage yourself once?’

‘Me!’ He laughed heartily, throwing back his head in a great guffaw. ‘Goodness gracious no! I could never have afforded even a twentieth of one. I was only an enthusiast! I just loved being
near
the lovely things, you understand. The most beautiful cars ever made …’ He chuckled again. ‘No! I just loved being
near
them.’

The
Auto
office was quite near, only twenty minutes’ walk away. Although it was late – almost five – and the place likely to be closing, she decided to try anyway.

In the end it was further than she thought, a good twenty-five minutes away. By the time she found the right doorway she was so tired she could hardly climb the four flights of stairs. No energy: she hadn’t eaten since breakfast.

Finally she arrived, panting and shaking slightly, in front of a half-glazed door inscribed with the word
Auto
in scratched gold letters.

She knocked and someone called, ‘Enter.’

The office was a single room with a large desk on which a lanky man of about thirty was sitting, speaking into a telephone. He waved her into a seat and continued his conversation, which mainly consisted of sighs and tuts and expressions of despondency.

Julie flopped down and closed her eyes for a moment. After a few minutes she opened them again and looked around her. She saw a copy of
Auto
on a side table and, picking it up, leafed through. Most of the magazine was made up of articles and photographs of racing cars, but at the back there were six pages of advertisements.

Julie scanned them quickly. There was a Delage for sale … and a second and third. It looked quite promising. She looked for the date at the top of the page and felt a pang of disappointment. March 1938. Years ago.