The Other Side of Midnight

‘How do I know the job will still be open?’ Noelle asked.

The driver shrugged. ‘I told you, the girl just left this morning. If you don’t want to go in, I’ll take you back to the station.’

‘No,’ Noelle said quickly. She opened her purse, took out twelve francs and handed them to the driver. He stared at the money, then looked at her. Embarrassed, she reached into her purse and handed him another franc.

He nodded, unsmiling, and watched her lift her suitcase out of the taxi.

As he started to drive away, Noelle asked, ‘What’s your sister’s name?’

‘Jeanette.’

Noelle stood on the kerb watching the taxi disappear, then turned to look at the building. There was no identifying sign in front, but she supposed that a fashionable dress house did not need a sign. Everyone would know where to find it. She picked up her suitcase, went up to the door and rang the bell. A few moments later the door was opened by a maid wearing a black apron. She looked at Noelle blankly.

‘Yes?’

‘Excuse me,’ Noelle said. ‘I understand that there is an opening for a model.’

The woman stared at her and blinked.

‘Who sent you?’

‘Jeanette’s brother.’

‘Come in.’ She opened the door wider and Noelle stepped into a reception hall done in the style of the 1800’s. There was a large Baccarat chandelier hanging from the ceiling, several more scattered around the hall, and through an open door, Noelle could see a sitting room filled with antique furniture and a staircase leading upstairs. On a beautiful inlaid table were copies of Figaro and L’Echo de Paris. ‘Wait here. I’ll find out if Madame Delys has time to see you now.’

‘Thank you,’ Noelle said. She set her suitcase down and walked over to a large mirror on the wall. Her clothes were wrinkled from the train ride, and she suddenly regretted her impulsiveness in coming here before freshening up. It was important to make a good impression. Still, as she examined herself, she knew that she looked beautiful. She knew this without conceit, accepting her beauty as an asset, to be used like any other asset. Noelle turned as she saw a girl in the mirror coming down the stairs. The girl had a good figure and a pretty face, and was dressed in a long brown skirt and a high-necked blouse. Obviously the quality of models here was high. She gave Noelle a brief smile and went into the drawing room. A moment later Madame Delys entered the room. She was in her forties and was short and dumpy with cold, calculating eyes. She was dressed in a gown that Noelle estimated must have cost at least two thousand francs.

‘Regina tells me that you are looking for a job,’ she said.

‘Yes, ma’am,’ Noelle replied.

‘Where are you from?’

‘Marseille.’

Madame Delys snorted. ‘The playpen of drunken sailors.’

Noelle’s face fell.

Madame Delys patted her on the shoulder. ‘It does not matter, my dear. How old are you?’

‘Eighteen.’

Madame Delys nodded. ‘That is good. I think my customers will like you. Do you have any family in Paris?’

‘No.’

‘Excellent. Are you prepared to start work right away?’

‘Oh, yes,’ Noelle assured her eagerly.

From upstairs came the sound of laughter and a moment later a red-headed girl walked down the stairs on the arm of a fat, middle-aged man. The girl was wearing only a thin negligee.

‘Finished already?’ Madame Delys asked.

‘I’ve worn Angela out,’ the man grinned. He saw Noelle. ‘Who’s this little beauty?’

‘This is Yvette, our new girl,’ Madame Delys said. And without hesitation added, ‘She’s from Antibes, the daughter of a Prince.’

‘I’ve never screwed a Princess,’ the man exclaimed. ‘How much?’

‘Fifty francs.’

‘You must be joking. Thirty.’

‘Forty. And believe me, you’ll get your money’s worth.’

‘It’s a deal.’

They turned to Noelle. She had vanished.

Noelle walked the streets of Paris, hour after hour. She strolled along the Champs-Élysées, down one side and up the other, wandering through the Lido Arcade and stopping at every shop to gaze at the incredible cornucopia of jewellery and dresses and leather goods and perfumes, and she wondered what Paris was like when there were no shortages. The wares displayed in the windows were dazzling, and while one part of her felt like a country bumpkin, another part of her knew that one day these things would belong to her. She walked through the Bois and down the rue du Faubourg-St.-Honoré and along the avenue Victor-Hugo, until she began to feel tired and hungry. She had left her purse and suitcase at Madame Delys’, but she had no intention of going back there. She would send for her things.

Noelle was neither shocked nor upset by what had happened. It was simply that she knew the difference between a courtesan and a whore. Whores did not change the course of history: courtesans did. Meanwhile she was without a cent. She had to find a way to survive until she could find a job the next day. Dusk was beginning to brush the sky, and the merchants and hotel doormen were busy putting up blackout curtains against possible air attacks. To solve her immediate problem, Noelle needed to find someone to buy her a good hot dinner. She asked directions from a gendarme and then headed for the Crillon Hotel. Outside, forbidding iron shutters covered the windows, but inside, the lobby was a masterpiece of subdued elegance, soft and understated. Noelle walked in confidently as if she belonged there and took a seat in a chair facing the elevator. She had never done this before, and she was a bit nervous. But she remembered how easy it had been to handle Auguste Lanchon. Men were really very uncomplicated. There was only one lesson a girl had to remember: A man was soft when he was hard and hard when he was soft. So it was only necessary to keep him hard until he gave you what you wanted. Now, looking around the lobby, Noelle decided that it would be a simple matter to catch the eye of an unattached male on his way, perhaps, to a lonely dinner.

‘Pardon, mademoiselle.’

Noelle turned her head to look up at a large man in a dark suit. She had never seen a detective in her life, but there was no doubt whatever in her mind.

‘Is Mademoiselle waiting for someone?’

‘Yes,’ Noelle replied, trying to keep her voice steady. ‘I’m waiting for a friend.’

She was suddenly acutely aware of her wrinkled dress, and the fact that she carried no purse.

‘Is your friend a guest of this hotel?’

She felt a surge of panic rising in her. ‘He – er – not exactly.’

He studied Noelle a moment, then said in a hardened tone. ‘May I see your identification?’

‘I–I don’t have it with me,’ she stammered. ‘I lost it.’

The detective said, ‘Perhaps Mademoiselle will come with me.’ He put a firm hand on her arm, and she rose to her feet.

And at that moment someone took her other arm and said, ‘Sorry I’m late, cheri, but you know how those damned cocktail parties are. You have to blast your way out. Been waiting long?’

Noelle swung around in astonishment to look at the speaker. He was a tall man, his body lean and hard-looking, and he wore a strange, unfamiliar uniform. He had blue-black hair with a widow’s peak and eyes the colour of a dark, stormy sea, with long, thick lashes. His features had the look of an old Florentine coin. It was an irregular face, the two profiles not quite matching, as though the minter’s hand had slipped for an instant. It was a face that was extraordinarily alive and mobile so that you felt it was ready to smile, to laugh, to frown. The only thing that saved it from being femininely beautiful was a strong, masculine chin with a deep cleft in it.