The Collaborators. Reginald Hill
instructions last night that you weren’t to be disturbed by anything less than a call from the Führer and not even then if he wanted to transfer the charge.’
Mai grimaced behind a puff of smoke.
‘Sorry about that, sir. Look, I’m not sure Pajou’s the kind of man we want just now. Basically he’s a nasty piece of work and he’s not even a native Parisian. What we ought to be doing now, before the first shock fades and people begin to take notice, is establishing a network of nice ordinary citizens who’ll feed us with intelligence just for the sake of reassurance that the dreadful Hun is a nice ordinary chap like themselves.’
‘Clever thinking, Günter. But in the end we’ll doubtless need the nasties, so we might as well recruit Pajou now. If we don’t no doubt the SD will when they arrive.’
The Sicherheitsdienst was the chief Nazi intelligence gathering service. With France under military control, the SD ought not yet to have a presence, let alone a function.
’When!’ said Mai. ‘I heard the bastards were already settling in at the Hôtel du Louvre. And I’m sure I saw Fiebelkorn in the restaurant last night - in civvies, of course, not his fancy SS colonel’s uniform.’
‘Let’s hope it was a drunken delusion,’ said Zeller with a fastidious shudder.
‘One thing, if they’ve started showing their faces, it means the fighting’s definitely over. Right, sir, I’ll talk to Pajou if he rings back.’
‘No, you’ll talk to him face to face,’ said Zeller, rising gracefully. ‘He left word that he would look for you by the Medici Fountain at ten-thirty this morning. That gives you just half an hour.’
‘But breakfast…’ objected Mai, genuinely indignant.
‘I thought you weren’t hungry. Anyway a good keeper should have been doing the rounds of his estate at the crack of dawn. Let me know how you get on, won’t you?’
With a smile and a sort of waving salute, Zeller left.
‘Go stuff yourself,’ murmured Mai, but he began to get ready. Zeller expected obedience in small matters, and though Mai had been looking forward to his favourite hangover cure of sweet black coffee and half a dozen croissants, it wasn’t worth the risk of irritating him into some petty revenge.
He clattered through the lobby of the hotel trying to look brisk and businesslike, but once out into the gentle morning sunlight, he slowed to strolling pace. Sod Pajou. He could wait. What was more, he would wait. He wasn’t selling information today, he was applying for a job!
It was good to see how things were coming back to normal. The Bon Marché emporium which he could see at the far side of the garden opposite the hotel had reopened and looked to be doing good business. He must go on a shopping expedition himself soon. Victory or no victory, there’d soon be shortages he guessed. And a nice supply of silks and perfume would be useful on his next home leave.
He strolled on, taking deep breaths of the rich enchanted air. His mind, ever ready to deflate, reminded him that at this hour of the morning the air would normally have been rich indeed - with the stench of exhaust fumes.
You see how we’re improving things already! he mentally addressed the city.
Gradually he became aware that the air was indeed richly scented. Wandering by half-memory, he had turned into the Rue d’Assas. It ought to lead him roughly towards the Luxembourg. In any case, he liked the sound of the name. Eventually he reached a narrow crossroads where the Rue Duguay-Trouin entered and the Rue de Fleurus intersected the Rue d’Assas. Looking left, he could see down to the Gardens. But his nose was turning him away to the right. He followed it along the narrow street till his eyes could do their share of the work and identify the source of that rich, warm smell.
It was a baker’s shop, not very big, but dignified by the words Boulangerie Pâtisserie parading above the windows in ornate lettering, and decorated by glass-covered designs around the door which featured a sturdy farmer and his elegant wife and promised ‘Pains Français et Viennois, Pains de Seigle, Chaussons aux Pommes et Gâteaux Secs’.
On the glass of the door was engraved ‘Crozier Père et Fils depuis 1870’, underlined by a triangle of curlicues, eloquent of the pride with which that first Crozier had launched his business seventy years before. The same year in which, if Mai’s history served him well, the Franco-Prussian war began. Perhaps other occupying Germans had been customers at this shop!
The shop window was fairly bare. But the smell of baking was rich and strong.
He pushed open the door and went in. There was one customer, one of those Frenchwomen of anything between fifty and a hundred who wear black clothes of almost Muslim inclusiveness whatever the weather. She was being served by a stout woman in middle age with the kind of flesh that looked, not unfittingly, as if it had been moulded from well-kneaded dough.
The black-swathed customer looked in alarm at Mai’s uniform, said abruptly, ‘Good morning, Madame Crozier,’ and left.
‘Good morning, Madame Duval,’ the stout woman called after her. ‘Monsieur?’
Her attempt at sang-froid failed miserably.
He set about allaying her fears.
‘Madame,’ he said in his rolling Alsatian French. ‘I have been drawn here by the delectable odours of what I’m sure is your superb baking. I would deem it an honour if you would allow me to purchase a few of your croissants.’
The woman’s doughy features stretched into a simper.
‘Claude!’ she shouted.
The door behind her opened, admitting a great blast of mouth-watering warmth and a man cast in the same mould, and from the same material, as his wife.
‘What?’ he demanded. Then he saw the uniform, and his face, which would have made him a fortune in the silent movies, registered fearful amazement.
‘Good day, monsieur,’ said Mai. ‘I was just telling your wife how irresistible I found the smell of your baking.’
‘Claude, are there any more croissants? The officer wants croissants,’ said Madame Crozier peremptorily.
‘No, I’m sorry…’ began the man.
‘Well, make some, Claude,’ commanded the wife. ‘If the officer would care to wait, it will only take a moment.’
The man went back into the kitchen and the woman brought Mai a chair. As she returned to the counter the door burst open. A good-looking woman of about twenty-five with dishevelled fair hair and a pale smudged face rushed in. She was carrying a child of about two years and at her heels was a boy a few years older.
She cried, ‘Maman, are you all right? Madame Duval said the Boche were here!’
‘Janine!’ exclaimed the woman. ‘What are you doing back? Why aren’t you in Lyon? Oh the poor baby! Is she ill?’
The child in arms had begun to cry. Madame Crozier reached over the counter and took her in her arms with much cooing.
‘No, she’s just hungry,’ said the girl, then broke off abruptly as for the first time she noticed Mai sitting quietly in the corner, almost hidden by the door. She was not however the first of the newcomers to notice him. The young boy’s eyes had lit on him as soon as he came in and the lad had thereafter fixed him with a disconcertingly level and unblinking gaze.
Mai got to his feet.
‘I’m sorry, madame,’ he said. ‘Please do not let me disturb this reunion.’
‘No, wait,’ cried Madame Crozier. ‘Claude! Where are those croissants?’
‘They’re coming, they’re coming!’ came the reply, followed almost immediately by the opening of the door. Once again Mai had the pleasure of seeing