Read Online The Collaborators by Reginald Hill - Free Book Online Page A

that was the brutal truth. A couple of nights earlier they’d visited the Deux Magots where Melchior, rather full of Bruno’s excellent brandy, had spotted Cocteau in a corner.
    ‘Do I know him? Blood-brothers, dear boy! Of course I’ll introduce you.’ And he’d set off across the room, big smile, outstretched hand, with Bruno in close formation. The Great Man (pretentious shit!) had thrust an empty bottle into the outstretched hand and said, ‘Another of the same, waiter. A bit colder this time,’ and all his arse-licking cronies had set up a jeering bray.
    Zeller turned on his heel and stormed out of the door. By the time Melchior got out, he was in his car. The engine drowned Maurice’s attempts at explanation and apology, and as he grasped the door handle, the car accelerated away, pulling him to his knees in the gutter.
    Perhaps it was the supplicatory pose; or perhaps Zeller was reminded of the circumstances of their first meeting. He stopped the car, reversed and opened the door.
    ‘Get in,’ he said.
    They drove away at high speed up the Rue de Rennes and turned into the Boulevard Raspail.
    ‘Are we going to the Lutétia?’ asked Melchior.
    ‘Yes.’
    Melchior relapsed into a nervous silence. Once before he had suggested provocatively that Bruno should take him to dine at the Lutétia. The German had said coldly, ‘The only Frenchmen who come into Abwehr Headquarters are agents or prisoners. It can be arranged.’
    Now Melchior recalled that moment and shivered.
    The trouble was things hadn’t been going well for some weeks. As life returned to something like normal it had grown increasingly difficult to maintain his claim to be at the artistic heart of things. Name-dropping was only successful if the names dropped kept a decent distance from the city. But many had returned, and even when they were polite, they made it very clear they were not intimate with him. Usually he was able to bluff it out but a snub like tonight’s was too unambiguous for bluff.
    They entered the hotel by a side-door. It was clear he wasn’t going to see the public rooms. ‘Who’s duty officer?’ Zeller demanded of an armed corporal.
    ‘Lieutenant Mai, sir.’
    ‘Fetch him.’
    When Günter Mai arrived, annoyed at having been dragged from his dinner, he recognized Melchior instantly but concealed the fact. His superior’s sexual impulses were his own affair as long as they didn’t compromise the section’s security. As soon as the inevitable happened and Zeller found himself a ‘friend’, Mai had done a thorough check. In the light of official Party attitudes to Jews and perverts, Maurice Melchior was not an ideal companion for a German officer. But it was clear he hadn’t a political thought in his head. Motivated entirely by hedonistic self-interest, conceited, cowardly, the little queer posed no security risk at all. But what on earth was he doing here?
    ‘This is Monsieur Melchior,’ said Zeller. ‘I’ll be interviewing him immediately. Is there a room?’
    ‘Of course, sir,’ said Mai. ‘This way.’
    In the sparsely furnished room, Zeller waited till Mai had closed the door behind him, then said, ‘Let’s talk seriously, Maurice.’
    ‘Delighted. But why have you brought me here?’
    ‘So you’ll understand quite clearly what I’m saying to you,’ said Zeller softly. ‘Maurice, you haven’t been honest with me, have you? You’ve been a naughty boy.’
    ‘Always willing to oblige,’ laughed Melchior.
    ‘Shut up! It seems that far from being the celebrity you claim, you’re a nobody. Worse, you’re a bit of a laughing stock. That’s your bad luck, but by your idiocy, you’ve got me involved in it too. I don’t care to be made to look ridiculous, Maurice. Getting mixed up with you was a mistake. Some people can forget mistakes. I can’t. I need to correct them.’
    ‘What do you mean, Bruno?’ demanded Melchior nervously.
    ‘You’re going to have to start earning your keep,’ said