The Other Side of Midnight (20 page)

Afterward they dressed, got into his car and drove to Maryland, where they found a little restaurant that was still open and they had lobster and champagne.

At five o’clock in the morning, Catherine dialed William Fraser’s number at home and stood there listening to the long rings eighty miles away until finally Fraser’s sleepy voice came on the phone, and said, “Hello…”

“Hello, Bill. It’s Catherine.”

“Catherine! I’ve been trying to call you all evening. Where are you? Are you all right?”

“I’m fine. I’m in Maryland with Larry Douglas. We just got married.”

Christian Barbet was an unhappy man. The bald little detective sat at his desk, a cigarette between his stained, broken teeth, and gloomily contemplated the folder in front of him. The information it contained was going to cost him a client. He had been charging Noelle Page outrageous fees for his services, but it was not only the loss of the income that saddened him: He would miss the client herself. He hated Noelle Page and yet she was the most exciting woman he had ever met. Barbet built lurid fantasies around Noelle in which she always ended up in his power. Now the assignment was about to come to an end, and he would never see her again. He had kept her waiting in the reception office while he tried to figure out a way to handle things so that he could squeeze some additional money out of her to prolong the case. But he reluctantly concluded that there was no way. Barbet sighed, snuffed out his cigarette, walked over to the door and opened it. Noelle was sitting on the black imitation leather couch, and as he studied her, his heart caught in his throat for a moment. It was unfair for any woman to be so beautiful. “Good afternoon, Mademoiselle,” he said. “Come in.”

She entered his office moving with the grace of a model. It was good for Barbet to have a name client like Noelle Page, and he was not above dropping her name frequently. It attracted other clients, and Christian Barbet was not a man to lose any sleep over ethics. “Please sit down,” he said, indicating a chair. “Can
I get you a brandy, an aperitif?”

Part of his fantasy was getting Noelle drunk so that she would beg him to seduce her.

“No,” she replied. “I came for your report.”

The bitch could have had a last drink with him! “Yes,” Barbet said. “As a matter of fact I have several pieces of news.” He reached over to the desk and pretended to study the dossier, which he had already memorized.

“First,” he informed her, “your friend was promoted to Captain and transferred to the one hundred thirty-third squadron, where he was put in command. The field is at Coltisall, Duxtford, in Cambridgeshire. They flew”—he spoke slowly and deliberately, knowing that she was not interested in the technical part—“Hurricanes and Spitfire Il’s and then switched to Mark V’s. They then flew—”

“Never mind,” Noelle interrupted impatiently. “Where is he now?”

Barbet had been waiting for the question. “In the United States.” He saw the reaction before she could control it, and he took savage satisfaction in it. “In Washington, D.C.,” he continued.

“On leave?”

Barbet shook his head. “No. He’s been discharged from the RAF. He’s a Captain in the United States Army Air Corps.”

He watched Noelle digesting the information, her expression giving no clue to what she was feeling. But Barbet was not finished with her yet. He picked up a newspaper clipping between his stained sausage fingers and handed it to her.

“I think this will interest you,” he said.

He saw Noelle stiffen, and it was almost as though she knew what she was going to see. The clipping was from the New York
Daily News.
The caption read “War Ace Weds” and above it was a photograph of Larry Douglas and his bride. Noelle looked at it for a long moment, then held out her hand for the rest of the
file. Christian Barbet shrugged, and slid all the papers into a manila envelope and handed it to her. As he opened his mouth to make his farewell speech, Noelle Page said, “If you don’t have a correspondent in Washington, get one. I shall expect weekly reports.” And she was gone, leaving Christian Barbet staring after her in a state of complete confusion.

When she returned to her apartment, Noelle went into the bedroom, locked the door and took the newspaper clippings out of the envelope. She laid them out on the bed before her and studied them. The photograph of Larry was exactly as she remembered him. If anything the image in her mind was clearer than the image in the newspaper, for Larry was more alive in her mind than he was in reality.

There was not a day that went by that Noelle did not relive the past with him. It was as though they had costarred in a play together long ago, and she was able to recapture scenes at will, playing some on certain days and saving others for other days, so that each memory was always alive and fresh.

Noelle turned her attention to Larry’s bride. What she saw was a pretty, young, intelligent face with a smile on its lips.

The face of the enemy. A face that would have to be destroyed as Larry was going to be destroyed.

Noelle remained locked up with the photograph the whole afternoon.

Hours later when Armand Gautier pounded on her bedroom door, Noelle told him to go away. He waited outside in the drawing room, apprehensive about what her mood would be, but when Noelle finally emerged, she seemed unusually bright and gay, as though she had had a piece of good news. She offered no explanation to Gautier, and he knew her well enough not to ask for one.

After the theater that evening she made love to him with a wild passion that reminded him of their early days together. Later Gautier lay in bed trying to understand
the beautiful girl who rested beside him but he did not have a clue.

During the night Noelle Page had a dream about Colonel Mueller. The hairless albino Gestapo officer was torturing her with a branding iron, making burning swastikas in her flesh. He kept asking her questions, but his voice was so soft that Noelle could not hear him, and he kept pressing the hot metal into her, and suddenly it was Larry on the table, screaming with pain. Noelle awoke in a cold sweat, her heart pounding, and turned on the bedside lamp. She lit a cigarette with trembling fingers and tried to calm her nerves. She thought about Israel Katz. His leg had been amputated with an ax, and though she had not seen him since that afternoon at the bakery, she had received word from the concierge that he was alive but weak. It was becoming more and more difficult to hide him, and he was helpless on his own. The search for him had intensified. If he was going to be transported out of Paris, it would have to be done quickly. Noelle had really done nothing for which the Gestapo could arrest her: yet. Was the dream a premonition, a warning not to help Israel Katz? She lay in bed remembering. He had aided her when she had the abortion. He had helped her kill Larry’s baby. He had given her money and helped her find a job. Dozens of men had done more important things for her than he had, yet Noelle felt no debt to them. Each of them, including her father, had wanted something from her, and she had paid in full for everything she had ever received. Israel Katz had never asked her for anything. She had to help him.

Noelle did not underestimate the problem. Colonel Mueller was already suspicious of her. She remembered her dream and shuddered. She must see to it that Mueller was never able to prove anything against her. Israel Katz had to be smuggled out of Paris, but how? Noelle was sure that all exits were closely watched. They would be watching the roads and the river. The Nazis might be
cochons,
but they were efficient
cochons.
It was a challenge and it could be a deadly one, but she was determined to try it. The problem was that there was no one she could turn to for help. The Nazis had reduced Armand Gautier to a quivering gelatin. No, she would have to do this alone. She thought of Colonel Mueller and General Scheider, and she wondered if a clash ever came, which one would emerge victorious.

The evening following Noelle’s dream she and Armand Gautier attended a supper party. The host was Leslie Rocas, a wealthy patron of the arts. It was an eclectic collection of guests—bankers, artists, political leaders and a gathering of beautiful women whom Noelle felt were there mainly for the benefit of the Germans who were present. Gautier had noticed Noelle’s preoccupation, but when he asked her what was wrong, she told him that everything was fine.

Fifteen minutes before supper was announced, a new arrival lumbered through the door and the moment that Noelle saw him she knew that her problem was going to be solved. She walked over to the hostess and said, “Darling, be an angel and put me next to Albert Heller.”

Albert Heller was France’s leading playwright. He was a large, shambling bear of a man in his sixties with a shock of white hair and broad, sloped shoulders. He was unusually tall for a Frenchman, but he would have stood out in a crowd in any case, for he had a remarkably ugly face and piercing green eyes that missed nothing. Heller had a vividly inventive imagination and had written more than a score of hit plays and motion pictures. He had been after Noelle to star in a new play of his and had sent her a copy of the manuscript. Now as she sat next to him at dinner, Noelle said, “I just finished reading your new play, Albert. I adored it.”

His face lit up. “Will you do it?”

Noelle put a hand on his. “I wish I could, darling. Armand has committed me to another play.”

He frowned, then sighed resignedly. “
Merde!
Ah, well, one day we will work together.”

“I would enjoy that,” Noelle said. “I love the way you write. It fascinates me the way writers create plots. I don’t know how you do it.”

He shrugged. “The same way you act. It is our trade, the way we make our living.”

“No,” she replied. “The ability to use your imagination in that way is a miracle to me.” She gave an embarrassed laugh. “I know. I’ve been trying to write.”

“Oh?” he said politely.

“Yes, but I’m stuck.” Noelle took a deep breath and then looked around the table. All the other guests were engrossed in their own conversations. She leaned toward Albert Heller and lowered her voice. “I have a situation where my heroine is trying to smuggle her lover out of Paris. The Nazis are searching for him.”

“Ah.” The big man sat there, toying with a salad fork, drumming it against a plate. Then he said, “Easy. Have him put on a German uniform and walk right through them.”

Noelle sighed and said, “There is a complication. He’s been wounded. He can’t walk. He lost a leg.”

The drumming suddenly stopped. There was a long pause, then Heller said, “A barge on the Seine?”

“Watched.”

“And all transportation out of Paris is being searched?”

“Yes.”

“Then you must have the Nazis do the work for you.”

“How?”

“Your heroine,” he said, without looking at Noelle, “is she attractive?”

“Yes.”

“Supposing,” he said, “your heroine befriended a German officer. Someone of high rank. Is that possible?” Noelle turned to look at him, but he avoided her eyes.

“Yes.”

“All right, then. Have her make a rendezvous with the officer. They drive off to spend a weekend somewhere outside Paris. Friends could arrange for your hero to be hidden in the trunk of the car. The officer must be important enough so that his car would not be searched.”

“If the trunk is locked,” Noelle asked, “would he not smother?”

Albert Heller took a sip of wine, quietly lost in thought. Finally he said, “Not necessarily.” He spoke to Noelle for five minutes, keeping his voice low, and when he had finished, he said, “Good luck.” And he still did not look at her.

Early the next morning Noelle telephoned General Scheider. An operator answered the switchboard, and a few moments later Noelle was put through to an aide and finally to the General’s secretary.

“Who is calling General Scheider, please?”

“Noelle Page,” she said, for the third time.

“I am sorry, but the General is in conference. He cannot be disturbed.”

She hesitated. “Could I call him back later?”

“He will be in conference all day. I suggest you write the General a letter stating your business.”

Noelle sat there a moment contemplating the idea and an ironic smile touched her lips.

“Never mind,” she said. “Just tell him I called.”

One hour later her phone rang, and it was General Hans Scheider. “Forgive me,” he apologized. “That idiot didn’t give me your message until just now. I would have left word for them to put you through, but it never occurred to me that you would telephone.”

“I’m the one who should apologize,” Noelle said. “I know how busy you are.”

“Please. What can I do for you?”

Noelle hesitated, choosing her words. “Do you remember what you said about us at dinner?”

There was a short pause, then “Yes.”

“I’ve been thinking about you a great deal, Hans. I would like very much to see you.”

“Will you have supper with me tonight?” There was a sudden eagerness in his voice.

“Not in Paris,” Noelle replied. “If we’re going to be together, I would like us to be away from here.”

“Where?” General Scheider asked.

“I want it to be some place special. Do you know Etratat?”

“No.”

“It’s a lovely little village about a hundred and fifty kilometers from Paris, near Le Havre. There’s a quiet old inn there.”

“It sounds wonderful, Noelle. It’s not easy for me to get away right now,” he added apologetically. “I am in the middle of—”

“I understand,” Noelle interrupted icily, “perhaps some other time.”

“Wait!” There was a long pause. “When could you get away?”

“Saturday night after the show.”

“I will make arrangements,” he said. “We can fly down—”

“Why don’t we drive?” Noelle asked. “It’s so pleasant.”

“Whatever you like. I’ll pick you up at the theater.”

Noelle thought quickly. “I have to come home and change first. Pick me up at my apartment, would you?”

“As you wish, my
liebchen.
Until Saturday night.”

Fifteen minutes later Noelle was speaking to the concierge. He listened as she talked, shaking his head in vigorous protest.

“No, no, no! I will tell our friend, Mademoiselle, but he will not do it. He would be a fool to! You might as well ask him to go down and apply for a job at Gestapo headquarters.”

“It can’t fail,” Noelle assured him. “The best brain in France figured it out.”

When she walked out of the entrance of her apartment building that afternoon, she saw a man lounging against the wall pretending to be engrossed in a newspaper. As Noelle stepped into the crisp, winter air, the man straightened up and began to follow her at a discreet distance. Noelle strolled the streets slowly and leisurely, stopping to look into all the shop windows.