Banquet of Beggars: From the Winner of the HWA Gold Crown for Best Historical Fiction by Chris Lloyd

Author:Chris Lloyd
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
ISBN: 9781409190387
Publisher: Orion
Published: 2024-08-14T16:00:00+00:00

42

‘We’ll try and get you out of here as soon as we can,’ I promised.

The woman in the cell sneered at me. ‘You should be ashamed. Doing the Boches’ dirty work like that.’

I considered having one more go at explaining how I’d had her arrested to stop the situation at Rue de Buci from worsening, but I didn’t have the heart. I knew deep down that we’d got lucky. Arresting the three women could have gone either way. It was just fortunate for them – and for me – that it went the right way.

Checking with the sergeant on duty that they’d get a meal, I knew there was nothing more I could do. I tried phoning the Palais de Justice to see if Judge Rambert was there, but he wasn’t. Nothing would happen now until tomorrow morning.

In need of a wash, I went home to shave and shower. Part of me was tempted to spend the rest of Sunday reading, but I realised I wanted to see Dominique. It was time to go to Montmartre and face the music. Literally, as it turned out.

The jaunty voice of Charles Trenet singing ‘Boum’ was playing on Dominique’s gramophone when she opened the door. It was far too cheerful. I was in a mind to turn around and go back home to Paulhan.

She leaned out and kissed me before opening the door wide to let me in.

‘How are you, Eddie?’ She closed the door and ushered me into the living room. A fire was burning in the grate and I felt a pang of shame. ‘Everything all right with your flat?’

‘I got a call when I was there, so I had to go into Thirty-Six.’ I didn’t mention the morning’s escapades with hungry Germans and angry French. Best not to.

‘I thought it had to be something like that. Well, never mind, you’re here now. I’ll get some lunch on. I don’t know what, though.’

‘Let’s go out,’ I said on impulse.

She looked surprised. ‘Out? To a restaurant? Do you think that’s a good idea?’

‘Why not? There must be somewhere you know in Montmartre where it won’t matter.’

She cocked her head and smiled. ‘Why not?’

We locked up and she led me through streets I hadn’t walked in years to a narrow alleyway near Place du Tertre. At a double door next to a high wall that didn’t seem to have a building behind it, she pushed and took me into a tiny restaurant. The aroma of cooking was like before the Occupation. I paused a moment to take it in.

‘How come you’ve never brought me here before?’ I said.

‘You’ve never asked.’

The owner, a woman our age with long grey hair and a smile that would open a block of ice, gave Dominique a hug and greeted me with the caution of someone meeting a best friend’s new beau. She showed us to one of just half a dozen tables and told us what food she had to offer.

Since the Occupation, restaurants had been placed

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