She drank, enjoyed, didn’t try to hide it. Or perhaps couldn’t. Not the best quality of a prospective agent, an inability to hide your feelings, thought Mai. Still he wasn’t really thinking of her as a Mata Hari.
‘I didn’t know it was you,’ said Janine.
‘You wouldn’t have come?’ asked Mai.
She shook her head then added, ‘Not because of the shop, what happened that time, but…’
‘Because I’m not a general, someone important? I take your point.’
She was much calmer now. It didn’t surprise him. This was what he was noted for - baiting, hooking, playing, and not so much landing the little fish as persuading it to jump out of the water.
He produced his pipe, held it up in a token request for permission, and lit it. Women often found a pipe reassuring.
‘That’s right,’ she said. ‘Someone important.’
He studied her through his pipe smoke. On her entry to the café he had thought she was plumper than he remembered. Now he realized that like himself she was just wearing several layers of clothes against the cold and was in fact rather thinner than he recalled. It was a good face, not beautiful but intriguing, full of life and mobility despite the wasting effects of this long winter.
‘Don’t you even want to talk about your problem?’ he asked.
‘There’s nothing to talk about.’
‘Oh? You’ve managed to track down Corporal Jean-Paul Simonian of the Light Infantry then?’
She went red with shock and anger.
‘He shouldn’t have told you,’ she said. ‘He had no right.’
‘He didn’t tell me anything,’ said Mai. ‘I got the details elsewhere.’
For a moment she looked puzzled then it dawned.
‘Maman!’ she said. ‘She’s been talking to you, hasn’t she?’
He was right. She was no fool. He nodded.
‘Mothers like to talk about their children,’ he said. ‘Even when they quarrel. She doesn’t blame you. She told me you were on edge because you’d no idea what had happened to your husband. So when Miche said you had a problem, I guessed.’
‘Very clever,’ said Janine. ‘What else did maman say? That I’d be better off if Jean-Paul never came back?’
Mai shrugged, a good French shrug.
‘He mightn’t, you know that? In fact it’s the likeliest explanation.’
‘Of course I know that.’
Her anger had faded. She drank her spiked coffee. He drew on his pipe. He could see she was building an equation, checking what it meant. At last she shook her head. There was neither relief nor disappointment in her voice when she spoke.
‘This is a waste of time. For both of us. I’ll be honest with you. Since Miche arranged this meeting, I’ve been wondering why any German should even think of helping me. There’s only one possible reason. He’d want me to agree to be an informer, a spy, something like that.’
She paused. He asked, ‘And what had you decided?’
‘I decided anyone who got me as a spy would have made a bad bargain,’ she said with an unexpected flash of humour. ‘Though I suppose, now that I know Miche’s boss isn’t a stranger, there could be another possibility.’
It took him a couple of seconds to work it out. He had to make an effort to keep the surprise out of his face, but Janine put his thoughts into words.
‘But I daresay that German officers have found easier ways of getting girls. Anyway, the point is, now I’ve seen you, there’s no point. I can’t see a mere lieutenant being any more useful to me than the Red Cross or a Vichy deputy. So thank you for the drink and goodbye.’ She rose to leave.
He didn’t try to stop her.
She walked straight past Boucher at the bar without saying a word.
‘Hey, Janine,’ he cried, going after her. ‘What’s up?’ he demanded as he overtook her in the street. ‘Won’t he help?’
‘He’s a lieutenant, Miche. A nobody. You should have told me. What can someone like that do?’
‘Look, I’m sorry,’ he said walking fast to keep up with her. ‘You’re probably right. Except that he strikes me as a clever sod, despite appearances, and my mate, Pajou - he’s the one who got me the job - he reckons old Günter really runs half the show at the Lutétia.’
She stopped and turned to face him.
‘This job of yours, what is it exactly?’ she asked.
‘It’s all above board,’ he assured her. ‘We help the authorities recover things. Food that’s been hoarded, valuables that have been hidden, illegally I mean.’
‘You help the Boche to loot!’
‘No,’ he said with genuine indignation. ‘It’s just recovery. People abandon their houses, make no proper provision for storing delicate antiques, the authorities take care of them.’
‘Rich Jews’ villas, you mean? And what do you know about delicate antiques, Miche?’
He grinned and said, ‘Not much. But they have experts to deal with things like that. And it’s not just Jewish stuff either. I reckon it’s a lot of rubbish this stuff about the Boche being down on the Jews. So there’s a bit of trouble sometimes, but there’s never been any shortage of our lot ready to have a go at the Jews. Ask your mum-in-law. I bet she can tell a tale or two. It just goes to show.’
It struck Janine that what her cousin was really wanting to show was that he was quite justified in working for the Germans. And it struck her also that she was feeling rather holier-than-thou for someone who had lain awake all night debating just what she would agree to in return for hard information about Jean-Paul.
But it had all been a waste of time. She was running out of hope. That was the point she was trying to steer away from in this idle chatter with Miche.
She didn’t realize she was crying till Miche said, ‘Hey come on. No weeping. Not outside anyway. You’ll get icicles on your cheeks. Let’s get you home. Tell you what, why don’t I use my influence and see if I can dig you up some proper fuel, and perhaps a kilo of best steak so you can all feast your faces tonight?’
He dropped her in the Rue de Thorigny promising to be back within the hour. He meant it too. Miche the Butcher had a soft heart. But he was even softer when it came to resolution.
As he drove along the Rue Montmartre toward his well-stocked, well-fuelled apartment, he saw a familiar small but exquisitely packed figure, swaying along beneath an explosion of golden hair.
‘Arlette!’ he called. ‘Arlette! How’s it going?’
She looked in surprise at the impressive car pulling into the kerb, then recognized Boucher.
‘Miche, it’s you. God, you’re doing all right, aren’t you?’
‘Not bad,’ he grinned. ‘Long time, no see.’
In fact he hadn’t seen Arlette since she’d put him up when he came back to Paris last June. They’d parted in a quarrel. He recalled throwing some very nasty names at her, not because she’d needed him out of her room so that she could ply her trade, but because he realized her new customers were Germans.
Well, he’d been a patriot then. Still was, only the Marshal had changed the shape of patriotism.
‘Fancy