Read Online The Collaborators by Reginald Hill - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Reginald Hill
Tags: Fiction, War & Military
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Zeller spitefully. ‘As a cultural guide, you’re a dead loss. As a sexual partner, you have your moments, but frankly, with the exchange rate the way it is, I can afford troupes of prettier, younger, more athletic friends than you, and there’s no shortage of offers. So that leaves only one avenue.’
‘What’s that, Bruno?’ asked Melchior, his mouth dry.
65
‘When we first met, you asked if I was going to make an agent out of you. Like you, I took it as a joke. But by Christ, Maurice, the joking time is over. Those big ears and sharp eyes of yours must be good for something. From now on, if you want protection - and the alternative, let me assure you, is persecution - you’re going to earn your keep. Do you understand me?’
Hell hath no fury like a German officer made to feel ridiculous, thought Günter Mai who was listening in the next room. But trying to make an agent out of a creature like Melchior, that really was ridiculous. There could be trouble there. Should he try to warn Zeller? He thought not. It would mean admitting his knowledge. And Zeller probably wouldn’t listen. Besides, he thought with a smile, a bit of trouble wouldn’t do that gilded youth any harm at all.
A not unkind man, Günter Mai might have been rather more concerned, though not much, if he could have shared Melchior’s growing panic as October turned to November and Zeller’s threats became more and more dire. He tried to explain how terribly difficult it was for someone like himself to become an agent. He was more than willing to oblige, dear Bruno must believe that, but the kind of gossip he was so expert at collecting was not, alas, the kind which held much interest for the guardians of military security.
But at last a break had come. There were rumours everywhere that, angered by the complacent acceptance by their elders of the German Occupation, the university students were planning some kind of demonstration on November 11th, armistice day. Melchior spent all his spare time in the cafés on the Boul’ Miche where once he had sought the occasional pick-up. The youngsters were happy enough to let him pay for their drinks, but laughed behind his back at his efforts to draw them. Did someone who had so shamelessly flaunted his Aryan nancy-boy really believe they were going to spill their plans for a few cups of coffee?
66
But there were others who noticed and did not discount his efforts so scornfully.
On November 10th, he was sitting disconsolately in the café where he’d taken Bruno after their first meeting. The owner no longer greeted him by name now his usual clientele were back, and not even free coffee seemed able to buy him company today. As one student had explained, thinking to be kind, ‘You’ve grown so dull, Maurice, since you stopped trying to screw us.’
He rose and left. As he walked along the rain-polished pavement observing with distaste the spattering of his mirror-like shoes, footsteps came hurrying after him. He looked round to see a youngster he knew as Émile approaching. He was a pale, sick-looking boy, and shabby even by student standards. When he caught up, he glanced behind him furtively, then drew Maurice off the boulevard into a doorway.
‘Monsieur,’ he said. ‘I need money.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Melchior. ‘A couple of francs is all I have…’
‘I need a thousand. Five hundred at the very least.’
Melchior looked at him sharply. This was obviously no ordinary touch.
He said, ‘Even if I had such a sum, which I don’t, why should I loan it to you?’
‘Not loan. Pay. Look, monsieur, everyone knows you’re very interested in the plans for our demo tomorrow. Well, I can tell you it’s not going to wait till tomorrow. Come midnight tonight, and you’ll be able to see to read, if you’re in the right places. I know those places.’
‘But that’ll mean breaking the curfew.’
‘It’s not the only thing that will be broken,’ said Émile. ‘Come on. Are you
‘What’s that, Bruno?’ asked Melchior, his mouth dry.
65
‘When we first met, you asked if I was going to make an agent out of you. Like you, I took it as a joke. But by Christ, Maurice, the joking time is over. Those big ears and sharp eyes of yours must be good for something. From now on, if you want protection - and the alternative, let me assure you, is persecution - you’re going to earn your keep. Do you understand me?’
Hell hath no fury like a German officer made to feel ridiculous, thought Günter Mai who was listening in the next room. But trying to make an agent out of a creature like Melchior, that really was ridiculous. There could be trouble there. Should he try to warn Zeller? He thought not. It would mean admitting his knowledge. And Zeller probably wouldn’t listen. Besides, he thought with a smile, a bit of trouble wouldn’t do that gilded youth any harm at all.
A not unkind man, Günter Mai might have been rather more concerned, though not much, if he could have shared Melchior’s growing panic as October turned to November and Zeller’s threats became more and more dire. He tried to explain how terribly difficult it was for someone like himself to become an agent. He was more than willing to oblige, dear Bruno must believe that, but the kind of gossip he was so expert at collecting was not, alas, the kind which held much interest for the guardians of military security.
But at last a break had come. There were rumours everywhere that, angered by the complacent acceptance by their elders of the German Occupation, the university students were planning some kind of demonstration on November 11th, armistice day. Melchior spent all his spare time in the cafés on the Boul’ Miche where once he had sought the occasional pick-up. The youngsters were happy enough to let him pay for their drinks, but laughed behind his back at his efforts to draw them. Did someone who had so shamelessly flaunted his Aryan nancy-boy really believe they were going to spill their plans for a few cups of coffee?
66
But there were others who noticed and did not discount his efforts so scornfully.
On November 10th, he was sitting disconsolately in the café where he’d taken Bruno after their first meeting. The owner no longer greeted him by name now his usual clientele were back, and not even free coffee seemed able to buy him company today. As one student had explained, thinking to be kind, ‘You’ve grown so dull, Maurice, since you stopped trying to screw us.’
He rose and left. As he walked along the rain-polished pavement observing with distaste the spattering of his mirror-like shoes, footsteps came hurrying after him. He looked round to see a youngster he knew as Émile approaching. He was a pale, sick-looking boy, and shabby even by student standards. When he caught up, he glanced behind him furtively, then drew Maurice off the boulevard into a doorway.
‘Monsieur,’ he said. ‘I need money.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Melchior. ‘A couple of francs is all I have…’
‘I need a thousand. Five hundred at the very least.’
Melchior looked at him sharply. This was obviously no ordinary touch.
He said, ‘Even if I had such a sum, which I don’t, why should I loan it to you?’
‘Not loan. Pay. Look, monsieur, everyone knows you’re very interested in the plans for our demo tomorrow. Well, I can tell you it’s not going to wait till tomorrow. Come midnight tonight, and you’ll be able to see to read, if you’re in the right places. I know those places.’
‘But that’ll mean breaking the curfew.’
‘It’s not the only thing that will be broken,’ said Émile. ‘Come on. Are you
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