The Prisoner of the Riviera Page 5

  “We blame ourselves,” said Anastasie. “If we had been more strict immediately.”

  “If, if, if,” said Agathe. “It suited us at the time.”

  Her sister’s face froze. She had been moving around the room, an energetic, angular woman of indeterminate age. Now she sat down and looked old. After a moment, she said, “Cybèle was a delightful child. Very happy, very kind. One of those people who see the best in others.”

  “Making her,” said Agathe, “wonderful company but maybe not fitting her for life as it is. Especially in wartime.”

  “She fell in love with a young soldier. She was just seventeen.”

  “He was nice enough,” Agathe added. “He was just a boy himself.”

  “Eighteen, I think. The Wehrmacht was sending out very young troops by then.”

  I could see the shape of the story already; it’s as old as Romeo and Juliet, and it tends to end badly. As hers did.

  “He left right after the landings. He promised her he’d come back.” Anastasie shrugged and raised her hands with one of those inimitable French gestures that express a wealth of worldly knowledge.

  “He might have died the day after he left,” Agathe said. “He was just a boy. They had little transport and the Maquis was fighting all through the hills.”

  “She was set to wait for him.”

  “You understand, we thought she would be safe with us,” Agathe interrupted in an anguished tone. “We thought that our war record would protect her.”

  “But there were, Monsieur, various thugs in patriotic disguise. Do you know the type?”

  I did.

  “Who were keen to cover their own dubious activities by denouncing others. Young women, especially, who could be shamed for ‘horizontal collaboration,’ while the black marketers and the real Vichy types went on to power or wealth.”

  “Or both,” said Agathe.

  “One day in the square, she had her head shaved, her clothes torn off. We were too late to stop it.”

  “We might not have been able to stop it,” Agathe said.

  “We should have stopped it all sooner,” Anastasie said. “When she first became interested in him.”

  “But it suited us.” I realized that the jolly Agathe was perhaps the more ruthless of the two.

  “In what way, Madame?”

  “What better cover, Monsieur, for a clandestine operation than to have a visiting German soldier?”

  “It was a fatal error,” said Anastasie.

  “We survived,” her sister said, “and Cybèle, too, when many others were rounded up and shot.”

  “She survived to have her heart broken and her name smeared. This is a small town, Monsieur. She packed her bag and disappeared within days. We have not heard from her since.”

  “I’m sorry that I can’t tell you more. As I told the police, I saw two men leave the villa, but I did not linger after they left, and I did not see her leave. I know nothing more, though the flics seem to think I do.”

  There was a long silence at this. Agathe passed around a bottle of dessert wine and little glasses. The kitchen clock ticked loudly and a tap dripped in counterpoint.

  “Why did you go to the Villa Mimosa?” Anastasie asked at last.

  “I was delivering a package from Victor Renard, who was supposedly dead.”

  “It would be hard for Victor Renard to be dead,” Anastasie said, “given that he never existed.”

  “I saw him shot. In London. His blood ruined my shirt.”

  “Whoever was shot was not Monsieur Renard,” Anastasie said firmly. “During the war, ‘Monsieur Renard’ was a password. People looking for assistance would ask for him. If they looked all right, we helped them. If not, ‘Monsieur Renard’ was away on business.”

  “At that time we were still very skilled in fine work,” Agathe added, seeing that I looked puzzled. “There were many people with unsatisfactory papers, refugees, Jews, known Communists.”

  “Or no papers at all,” said Anastasie. “We would make such ‘corrections’ and additions as was necessary.”

  “That must have been dangerous—and perhaps lucrative?” I was thinking of the list of names, of the fact that a man had been shot and a woman murdered for it.

  “We did not do it for the money,” Anastasie said, “but we had to survive, and the market for our work had collapsed. We worked on a barter system: documents for jewelry, antiques, pictures, which we sold to the Germans, who had a great appetite for such things.”

  I could see complications on every side, and I began to suspect that these two charmers had played every angle possible. Survival demands a certain moral flexibility, but they didn’t mention when—or if—they’d ended their business with the papers, and I wondered how many lowlifes had wanted new documents when the Allies invaded. “Why would the people in the villa use the Renard name?”

  “I do not know, Monsieur. I do not know what was in the package you delivered. We hope”—and here she turned to glance at Agathe—“that it was Cybèle’s idea. That it was a little message to us.”

  “An expensive message, Madame.”

  Again the two women exchanged glances. “We have a proposition, Monsieur,” said Agathe. “Your work with the pictures is excellent, but we have another job we’d like you to undertake.”

  I waited.

  “We want you to find Cybèle.” She held up her hand to stop me from speaking. “You can go places that we cannot, at least not inconspicuously. A young man asking questions about a young woman, well, that is natural, is it not? While two old ladies in certain places would raise questions right away.”

  “I would like to help you and Mademoiselle Cybèle, too, but it is a police matter. I’m guessing that you have contact with Inspector Chardin, that he told you about me and showed you my drawing. Can’t you leave this in his hands?”

  “The inspector is very decent,” Agathe said, “but Cybèle is an adult. Because she left of her own free will, the police will not devote too much time to her disappearance.”

  “And then, there is incident at the Villa Mimosa.” Anastasie pronounced “incident” with distaste. “It might be better if Cybèle were not found just now by the police.”

  “Granted, but you need a professional investigator, someone who is skilled in these matters and who knows the area.”

  “The area may be larger than you think,” Anastasie said. “This started in London.”

  “That’s all moot. I’m afraid that without my passport I am confined to town. I have no identification of any kind.”

  Agathe snorted. “Set your mind at rest on that score, Monsieur. An identity card is simplicity itself.”

  I had visions of Monte Carlo, Nice, and Paris, and I thought that even a passport might not be beyond their expertise. At the very least, I could drink with their money in every café and bistro on the Riviera. I was within a hairsbreadth of accepting when something about Anastasie’s gaunt features reminded me of Nan. I have a weakness for old ladies, especially ones who are dubious, and I shook my head. “Do not tempt me, Madame. I have no competence in this area, and I would only be taking your money under false pretenses.”

  Though they implored me to think it over and their obvious desperation made them persuasive, I resisted admirably. I left in the unfamiliar aura of virtue, my portrait kit on my back, and promised to return the next afternoon to finish up the tiny pictures for the dollhouse.

  Chapter Five

  I could see the glowing windows of the casino and the streetlights wavering behind the palm trees along the front. Now and again the night breeze brought a snatch of music, but in the upper town, where people worked for a living, the streets were dark, the little squares deserted. Not that I mind darkness. Compared to the total blackout during the war, even the shadowed alleys and the black pools beneath the lime trees were
easily navigated. I’m a “chimes at midnight” fellow in any case, and when I saw a tiny café with its string of colored lights still burning, I went in for a few drinks. With money in my pocket, I was up for adventures of one sort or another, but the room was nearly deserted. The few fellows leaning against the zinc all seemed preoccupied with the cares of the world. Unable to draw them out, I turned my mind unwillingly to the old ladies and to the proposition that I had rejected.

  Certainly Anastasie and Agathe had charm, but their activities during the war opened numerous possibilities, mostly doubtful. After my second cognac, it came to me that I was out after hours on the home turf of my friends from the Villa Mimosa. Considering that I had been on the front every day for a week, advertising my services, anyone interested would have a pretty good idea of how to find me.

  A foolish thought. Turn it the other way: I’d been out on the front, sketching the holidaymakers for a week without trouble. The men from the Villa Mimosa were doubtless long gone and the old ladies’ niece with them. Thinking good riddance to all of them, I tipped the barman and set off for the hotel via the long flight of stairs that led to the fresh vegetable market with its dark rows of stalls and tables. Once across the street under the rail bridge, I’d be in the shopping district within a block of the front and the cheerful faces of the late-night cafés and bistros.

  I had just reached the sidewalk that ran past the market when there was a sound behind me, and I was struck in the back with enormous force. Overbalanced by my easel and painting equipment, I stumbled onto my knees, scuffing my hands on the paving. The man behind me began swearing, as if this was an outrageous deviation from some obscure plan, and tried to tear the easel from my back. While he was struggling to part me from my livelihood, the folding stools came loose from the bundle. I got to my feet with one of the sturdy wood and canvas frames in hand and swung it at his head.

  It cracked his shoulder, instead, and he struck at my face. Another blow and another, and I realized that he was too big and too strong for me. He grabbed the shoulder strap that secured my painting gear and set to pound me unconscious. Desperate, I gave up trying to clobber him with the stool and thrust it at close range into his groin. He released me with a roar. I swung the wooden stool as hard as I could into his knee, then turned and ran. With his heavy and uneven tread behind me, I raced toward the rail bridge. Once in the shadow of the abutment, I ducked down an alley behind the station cafés and found my way past garbage bins and loading docks to the lights of the esplanade.

  I had almost reached the casino before I realized that my pursuer had vanished. Sore and breathless, I sat down on one of the benches along the plage. My face was wet; when I rubbed it, my hand looked dark. A moment’s investigation revealed that both my nose and my lip were bleeding, and I could feel my right eye beginning to swell. But if my beauty was compromised, I was otherwise unhurt, and I went to a nearby fountain to wash my face and clean my shirt.

  I unhooked my now-depleted bundle of equipment, laid it on the ground, and splashed in the cool water. I was standing there, the cuts on my face stinging, when I noticed my folding easel. Suddenly what had been an inconvenience of the midnight hour took on a different coloration. Stuck in the middle of the box that holds my pencils and colors was the hilt of a knife. I reached for it and gave a tug without success. No wonder my assailant had been annoyed. After several tries, I put my foot on the easel and levered the knife out, splintering the wood.

  I was still considering the implications when voices drifted along from the casino. It wouldn’t do to be found bleeding with a good-sized knife in my hand. I slipped the weapon inside the easel box and hoisted what was left of my painting kit onto my shoulder. Keeping to well-lighted streets, I made my way back to the Hotel Phoenix, where with the barest nod to the concierge, I got into the little iron elevator and was hoisted up to bed.

  In the morning, I faced decisions. I looked as if I’d been run over by a truck and, though I am skillful with makeup, daylight hours would inevitably reveal the damage. Then there was the knife, big, sharp, and serious, one of the many military and quasi-military weapons floating about. It suggested a quick exit from town.

  The simplest way would be to retrieve my passport. With what I’d earned from the Chavanel ladies, I could make my way north and take the ferry home if I had documents. After fending off questions and concerns from the concierge and consuming more than my share of bread and hot chocolate, I presented my case to Inspector Chardin, who roused himself from his melancholy to greet me with all the false geniality of officialdom. Ignoring my battered face, he peppered me with irrelevant questions: Was I enjoying my stay in their so charming town? The wonderful sand beach, the historic associations, the notable domestic architecture? He sounded more like a civic booster than a copper.

  “If one can enjoy the precarious living of the beachfront artist,” I said.

  “Ah, Monsieur, a man of your talents will make his way.” And he gave me a shrewd look as if he knew that I’d been in touch with the Chavanels.

  “It was tolerable until last night,” I said. I opened my painting box and took out the knife. I laid it on his desk and turned the box to show him how my assailant had splintered the wood. “I want out, Inspector. I have done nothing but deliver a package for an acquaintance, and now I have nearly been murdered on the street. My painting equipment has been damaged or lost, and with it, my livelihood. I want to return home, and I want my passport.”

  The inspector expressed proper concern about this, had my statement taken, and went over with me not once but twice the circumstances of the attack. This was a serious matter, he assured me, especially in light of recent events. But, as he put it, I surely saw that it was even more important than ever that I be “on hand”?

  I certainly did not. I had money for train fare and I said, “I’ll go to our consulate in Nice. I’ll make a formal complaint.”

  “I wouldn’t do that,” said Chardin. “We need you here and we have the means of keeping you here.”

  I didn’t like this at all.

  “We have observed your habits,” he said. “And while we do not have all the Anglo-Saxon prejudices, we can always find a charge under the somewhat elastic public indecency laws. Such a charge would not help you with your consul.”

  I was tempted to tell him just what I thought about these maneuvers. But that would be to tip my hand. With a restrained dignity not at all natural to me, I expressed my disappointment at the perfidy of the French police, collected my shattered gear, and left. I went back to the hotel, painted until lunchtime, then made a circuitous way to the Chavanels’ villa.

  “Monsieur!” Anastasie exclaimed when she opened the door. “What has happened?”

  “I’ve reconsidered your offer,” I said.

  “Agathe! Agathe!” she called and led me into the kitchen, where I was plied with herbal tea and bread and, more restorative than either, a shot of cognac, as I recounted my adventures of the night before and my meeting with Inspector Chardin.

  Agathe shook her head at this.

  “There was a chance I could retrieve my passport.”

  “You are lucky to be out and about,” she said. “For a variety of reasons, they want to solve this soon.”

  “So he gave me to understand. I want out and I want to purchase a passport.”

  “Passports are no longer for sale,” Anastasie said. “A carte d’identité is another matter, but strictly by barter as we have discussed.”

  I thought this over. The chances of my finding the girl were not good at all, but their willingness to drive a hard bargain was hardly my fault. “If I can find Cybèle,” I said, “you will make me a passport. Just good enough to get onto the Channel ferry.”

  They exchanged looks before Anastasie nodded. “Though if you find Cybèle, I think you will be able to clear yourself.”

  “Either way,” I said. “I need to
get home; I need peace and quiet to paint.”

  “Which reminds us,” Agathe said, and they set me to work on the little portrait. When I was finished, we had a fine lunch and the old ladies gave me as much information as they could about Cybèle. The girl was musical, it turned out, a fine singer and a respectable dancer. “Too inexperienced for the stage,” Agathe said, “but clubs, cafés, we think she could work those.”

  I thought about that. It was possible that “Madame Renard’s” underfed look was from dancing and that the girl’s sharp manner and cynical expression had been honed in the smoky dives that are the lot of friendless beginners. I’d figured the streets, but from what the old ladies were telling me, their niece was an intelligent and talented girl and, as they put it, “nobody’s fool.”

  “Except in romance,” I suggested.

  “She grew up fast,” Anastasie said abruptly. “We think Nice more likely than Marseille.”

  “Any reason?”

  “We used to visit relatives there—before ’43, of course. Once the Italians moved in, that was out of bounds.”

  I wondered about that or if their contacts in the Fascist territory had proved useful. “And who are these relatives?”

  “They died during the war, the bombardment, the famine. But Cybèle knew the town, and she may have contacted people who knew her cousins. Jerome Chavanel was a waiter at the Hotel Negresco. He would have had good contacts at restaurants, nightclubs, cafés.”

  “When did he die?”

  “In ’44.”

  “I’ll start by asking for him. Did you have any contact with her at all after she left?”

  “A postcard only. She’d gone to Antibes. She had a friend there, a potter named Suzanne. I don’t know her last name.”

  Anastasie shook her head, as if she only now realized how thin this information was and how unlikely success would be for even a skilled investigator familiar with the territory. “It’s not very much,” she said.

  But Antibes was the magic word. I had read that Picasso was working near there, and without any real desire to meet the painter who had impressed me so much, I found a strong impulse to see the area where he worked. “Get me the identity card and a little money and I will do my best,” I said.