Westward out of Montparnasse: four hours later, time to draw breath – the train picking up its rhythm as it left the Seine behind. She had a bench to herself, near the front of one of the open carriages: wooden-slatted benches, their waist-high backs forming the only partitions. A thin, elderly man and his huge wife faced her: behind her, about five booths away, César had an old priest on his left and a woman opposite with two small children. Across the aisle from him was a man with one arm: sparse grey hair and lean, aristocratic features. His name was Jean-Paul, and she’d gathered he was a full-time pimp – from a remark Toutou had made. Pierre Cazalet frowning at him warningly – Spare our Angel’s sensibilities…
Pierre had been marvellous, though. She put one hand down, touched the wooden seat: aware that marvels didn’t always last, that things could still blow up in one’s face. A police inspection now, for instance: Your papers, madame?
Could happen. But if it did it would be only a chance thing: she no longer believed they’d be looking for her. If they had been, she’d never have got out of Rouen. Now, she thought, she had about as much chance as you ever had: you got stopped, or you didn’t. If you did and your papers weren’t in order – well, bad luck… The best thing was – as always – not to think about it, simply to be oneself, concentrate on that… Jeanne-Marie Lefèvre, going home to ma-in-law and l’enfant. Having failed to get a job, and on top of that having fallen in the Metro, hurting herself badly and having her travelling-bag run off with, with all her papers in it. Ration card, everything: God alone knew what she’d do for money now, what she and the child would live on. Beg – or at best, scrub floors. Meanwhile, in telling the story, shed tears…
Tears had helped last time, she remembered.
She’d fielded a very dangerous ball, at the Montparnasse station. She’d spotted that César didn’t have his briefcase with him – only a holdall that couldn’t possibly have contained it. Whereas both she and Pierre had expected him to have brought it with him. Actually it had been Pierre’s logical expectation, and she’d agreed with it – having forgotten the extent of César’s carelessness, the possibility he might have left such an object just lying around for anyone to find.
Pierre had told Toutou, ‘Have Jean-Paul take care of the briefcase. Make that his special care. He’s to bring back whatever luggage or other appurtenances our man may have, but the briefcase is of paramount importance, tell him.’
Jean-Paul’s other job was to identify César to those who’d be boarding the train to deal with him. Rosie was to identify him to Jean-Paul initially and would from there on be in the clear, wouldn’t need to speak to anyone or even look at them, or have any idea that anything at all was happening. Little country mouse running home with her tail between her legs: disembarking then at Landerneau – César would have been taken care of by then – and the rest would be up to Vidor.
Who’d said he couldn’t help, with César. Pierre had shrugged as he put the phone down: ‘Better to come straight out with it, than try against the odds… Especially as I have another string to my bow.’
To start with – before breakfast – he’d listened intently to all she’d had to tell him, which had included the fact that she’d told César about him…
‘Exactly what, about me?’
‘That you were providing my cover – your name and code-name – the fact you’re a friend of Goering’s—’
‘His reaction to that?’
‘Surprise, and keen interest. As you’d expect. It came up because he’d asked me what my cover was – which as my boss he was entitled to know, obviously. But I’m dreadfully sorry—’
‘It’s not necessarily fatal. In fact – Angel, I’d put money on it that he won’t have made any report, as yet. At any rate, not on the subject of yours truly. First, I haven’t been – approached, questioned, investigated – and second, I’d have been told well in advance if any such thing were contemplated. I have very well-placed and highly reliable contacts, Angel. Including – well, doesn’t matter – but if there’d been talk about me even in the most secret and – oh, the most elevated circles—’
‘You’d know.’
‘Yes. I would. For a long time now it’s been essential to my survival.’
He’d become quite calm, by this time. Having realized that he could retain command of the situation.
Rosie nodding: ‘And if he hasn’t passed that on, you’re saying—’
‘Yes, the same would I think apply to all the rest of it. Piling it all up – for a grand slam, you might say. A fat dossier to drop on his general’s desk. For his own advantage – one might guess – but also he wouldn’t want them arresting people prematurely, scaring the rest away.’
‘Must have arranged the ambush, though?’
‘He’d have had no option – except to let Romeo fly away. And on that score – listen, here’s how it looks to me. I may be jumping to false conclusions but – listen, and tell me what you think… He told you he’d heard you got away, he was waiting for you to show up. I think that’s nonsense – his information would come from his own people, not from some – rumour, out of the countryside… On the other hand, from what you’ve told me I’d strongly suspect they arranged your escape. Too easy for you, otherwise, too grossly inefficient for them – in those departments especially they aren’t stupid. Try these questions: why put you with Erdos, why bother moving you from one cell to another? Why fail to put you in handcuffs? Why only one escort to two prisoners? Why unlocked car doors and a route with tight corners so they had to slow down to that extent? Why no shots and no pursuit?’
‘All right.’
‘Erdos would have been acting under their orders – a bargain for his life, maybe. Bet your life, Angel, they wanted you out. And why? Well, he’s making use of you now, isn’t he? Why else, this day-trip to Brest? To get into the escape route and whoever’s handling it – all it can be. Uh?’
‘Shades of La Chatte…’
‘Who’s she?’
‘They faked her escape. But it was her idea.’
‘Never heard of her. But listen – what if you weren’t supposed to have been taken prisoner in the first place? This is on the same track, you see. If he’d arranged that you’d be allowed to get away, he’d have assumed you had. And there again, in his shoes I’d have wanted Romeo caught, not shot dead – and I’d have wanted that Lysander on the ground – complete with this Romeo-replacement – huh? I think they cocked it up, Angel – if you’ll allow the expression. I think he assumed you were on the run – you’d have run back to your Organizer, wouldn’t you? Then he must have discovered – Angel, are we getting somewhere?’
‘So the interruption – when they were on the point of doing this dreadful thing to me—’
‘How would he have discovered you were there, I wonder?’
‘From his own people – as you say. Whoever they may be… If he’d called in – here, Paris, the operation would have been run from here, wouldn’t it – transferred from Lyon to head office – he might have begged them God’s sake order them to let her out – especially if he’s S.D. – or S.S. even, recruited to S.D., and the Rouen operation’s now in Gestapo hands.’
She’d paused, remembering. Only yesterday, for Christ’s sake… ‘It was good timing, Pierre.’
‘My poor Angel… There are times one can hope there’s such a thing as hell-fire.’
‘Too good for them. I’m not sure there’s anything—’
‘Well, I think perhaps there is. But we haven’t time now for – philosophical discussion… We’ve – let’s see – about one and a half hours…’
He’d made two telephone calls by that time, and while they were talking Vidor had responded from Lannilis. Cazalet telling him, ‘I’m almost a stranger to you, monsieur, but you’ll remember my young cousin whom you helped not long ago – a very pretty girl, known to her close friends as “Angel”? You do… Well, she’ll be on the train from Paris – reaching you late afternoon – and I wondered if you could arrange to have someone meet her. Exactly – but – one moment, monsieur – there’s a complication. Another passenger on the same train – not deserving of your hospitality…’
‘Ah. Ah…’
Listening, frowning…
‘Well, I understand. Yes.’ A long intake of breath… ‘Don’t concern yourself – except for the young lady – all right? But listen – I shall make other arrangements, and may I ask you to call me again – so you’ll know what’s arranged – in say one hour?’
Hanging up, he’d buzzed for Toutou and asked him to put a call through to Jacques Delage in Rennes. Or, get his wife, locate him through her. Tell her please drop everything else, just get him…
Delage, he explained to Rosie, was a road-haulier whose wife had a boutique and dealt in Maison Cazalet products. They were both – to coin a phrase – kindred spirits. He went on then, ‘You understand the basis of my thinking, Rosie – first, assuming all the information our German friend has gathered is either in his head or in his briefcase, and second the hope he’ll have the case with him. This is the only weak spot, I think. The remedy for the head is obvious, and if the case is with him, no problem there. I think he will have it – don’t you? It’s a little speculative, but – look, he’s working solo, knows he may have to call for support from either his own crowd or the milice – at Landerneau, perhaps – and he’d need documentation… It is speculative, but—’
‘I think you’re right.’
Toutou had buzzed through then to say the haulier was on the line. After some banter about whether he or his wife wore the perfume, and chat about how the road-haulage business was doing, Pierre had asked him whether he could spare a small team for say half a day. Today, yes. If they could board the Paris-Brest express… Well, at Rennes, presumably. Two men at least. They could return by some other train – late evening, perhaps. He, Cazalet, would defray all expenses. ‘Those specialists of yours, Jacques…’
Still over breakfast – rolls with cherry jam, and – incredibly – real coffee – he’d told her with his mouth full, ‘I’ll ask Toutou to be at Montparnasse, Angel. He’ll collect Jean-Paul and take him along, I imagine.’
She’d spread her hands: ‘Words fail me, Pierre…’
The train clattered westward, snaking around a wooded hill. The front end was just disappearing into a tunnel: she pulled the window up, met the fat woman’s stare, explained, ‘A tunnel…’ It always stank, in tunnels. The big woman nodded, shrugged her massive shoulders; she’d already consumed an apple and a large piece of sausage.
At the station – Montparnasse – Rosie had boarded the train and bagged this seat, hadn’t been at the window long before she’d seen César coming along the platform. Loosely cut grey linen jacket hanging open, checked shirt, narrow khaki trousers, and a soft leather holdall swinging at his side. He’d seen her too then – checked abruptly and limped to a door at the rear end of this same carriage, and a closer sight of him as he’d appeared inside had confirmed her first impression – that he had no briefcase, and there wouldn’t have been room for it in the bag. She’d thought about it for a moment: meanwhile seeing Toutou and his friend Jean-Paul a little way down towards the barrier, watching her: she guessed they’d have seen her watching César, and nodded to them, gestured in that direction: the one-armed man moved off towards that door, and Toutou smiled, raised a hand discreetly. She’d made her mind up, meanwhile – what to do about the briefcase. She left her coat and canvas grip – supplied by Toutou – on the seat, and disembarked, carefully not looking either César’s way or Toutou’s: guessing César would be watching her, might even follow. But he didn’t – might have checked and seen she’d left her things on the seat. She’d checked a second time that he wasn’t with her – saw Toutou looking after her, and the other one leaving the train to rejoin him – and continued out through the central concourse to the ornate stone portico where there were telephone booths that might almost have dated from the Franco-Prussian War.
Sure enough, the first two she tried didn’t work. But the third did. She joggled for the operator, and gave him Marc Pigot’s number in Rouen.
Ringing, ringing. Taking awful risks with telephones, she was well aware of it. Of Pierre having done so earlier this morning, too…
‘Auto Normande.’
‘Marc – it’s Angel.’
‘Angel…’
Coughing… She could see him: pale, hunched over…
‘I have to be quick… Marc – a great and very urgent favour?’
‘Tell me.’
‘The Café Belle Femme, Place de la Pucelle. Top floor, a room’s let to a man calling himself Michel Rossier. He’s not there – he’s in Paris, so the coast’s clear. You could say he sent you, if you needed to. Anyway – from the doorway, in the far right-hand corner there’s a floor-level cupboard with blankets in it, and under them there should be a briefcase. It has information in it which would be fatal to some of our friends. D’you follow?’
‘I’ll go now.’
‘Take it, and burn everything?’
‘As good as done. You all right?’
‘So far. But Romeo—’
‘I know. Good luck, Angel.’
Toutou and the one-armed man had very conveniently placed themselves at the newspaper kiosk near the barrier. She stopped beside them, bought a copy of L’Illustration and spoke as if she was reading it to herself: ‘Tell Louis I’ve arranged for the removal and destruction of the briefcase from the Café Belle Femme in Rouen. He can count on it, tell him not to worry. I take it you saw him, Jean-Paul – grey jacket, checked shirt?’
‘Like a sore thumb.’
Toutou muttered as she turned away, ‘Good luck, madame.’ A stickler for the formalities, old Toutou. The Cazalet training, no doubt… She went on through the barrier, showing her ticket for the second time. Grateful to Romeo for the gift of a man such as Marc Pigot, in whom one could have such faith. Romeo, Pigot, Vidor: men of the same stamp, she thought. And by contrast – that thing…
César – his head out of the window, searching as she came trudging back along the length of the train – shabby, breathless, with a cream-coloured scarf – a gift from Pierre, not too new – over her head to hide that wound and at least the worst of the facial bruising… César backed in, leaving the door clear, and the train looked and sounded as if it was about to leave, so she used that door herself – hauling herself awkwardly up the two steps, then not glancing at him any more than at his neighbours as she pushed past them. Jean-Paul boarded behind her: he’d left possessions of his own, she saw – a case, and a straw hat – on the seat diagonally across from César’s.
So far, so good. Except for feeling she’d just run five miles and had had no sleep for about a week… Back in her own place, she nodded to the elderly couple who’d got in during her absence, murmured politely, ‘Monsieur-madame…’
‘Ah, so those are yours… Going far, my dear?’
There was a shine of sweat on the fat face. The husband’s was skeletal, grey as putty. Rosie smiled at them both, as she sat down. ‘Too far. And what a price…’
At Chartres, the train was held up while they inspected tickets and, at random, papers. In Rosie’s case a glance at her return ticket satisfied them. There were armed police on the platform, but no arrests or trouble. The fat woman’s husband had had to open his eyes during the ticket inspection, and as the train pulled out he actually spoke – a mutter of, ‘Who’d believe this was France?’
‘Hush, André.’ His wife glanced at him, frowning: he stared at Rosie until she looked away, not wanting to involve herself.
After Vidor had called back – when Pierre had told him it was all fixed, his cousin would have no escort by the time the train reached Landerneau – putting the phone down, he’d told her, ‘He’s highly relieved. Must have problems. But he’s a good man, he won’t let you down.’
‘I know. We had breakfast in his house – me, and the one who was arrested when we got here.’
‘Guillaume.’
‘Did you hear any more?’
‘No. Nothing. Angel, do you understand why we’re going about this as we are? Delage’s men boarding at Rennes, so forth?’
‘I assume they’ll kill him – but where or how—’
‘Leave that to them. No need for you to know it’s happening. Make sure you don’t, in fact. What I mean is – the strategy, you might call it. The German’s got to be eliminated – obviously. It can’t be done here in Paris – equally obvious. It can’t safely be done in the earlier stages of the transit from here to Landerneau, because with such a lengthy period of exposure, allowing for instance for the discovery of the body – not necessarily in the train but on the track even – well, the train could be stopped, everyone searched – including you, lacking papers… On the other hand it has to be done before Landerneau. Another point, by the way, is that by and large the train starts full and empties as it goes along. Rennes, Saint-Brieuc, Morlaix – not exactly empties, but—’
‘These men get on at Rennes, Jean-Paul points him out to them—’
‘—and all you have to do is make sure you wake up for Landerneau.’
She blamed herself for not having guessed, about César. Or at least suspected… But she had – and dismissed the suspicion – despite finding him fairly unpalatable, at times…
You know, Angel, you rather grow on a man?
Bloody cheek…
‘What?’
She’d jumped: had been semi-dozing. The fat woman apologizing: ‘I’m very sorry – hadn’t realized—’
‘It’s all right – I was awake, more or less—’
‘No, I think you’d dropped off, I spoke before I’d realized… But tell me – am I right in thinking you’ve hurt your knees? You rub them so frequently. A fall, perhaps?’
‘Yes. In the Metro. Quite a bad one.’
‘Oh, poor doll!’
She’d slept through Le Mans, was woken by the clatter and sudden flurry when Fatso dropped a knife with which she’d been slicing a tomato into a half-open stick of bread which she’d already lined with sausage. Rosie picked the knife up for her: it had been under her feet, more or less, and the woman couldn’t have bent down that far – not without rupturing something.
‘Thank you so much. And once again, so sorry—’
‘No reason—’
‘You’re obviously exhausted. Could have cut you, what’s more!’
It certainly could have. It was a carving-knife with a horn handle and six-inch blade, and from the way it sliced that tomato, razor sharp.
Pierre was going to get the message about Jacqui and the password ‘Rosalie’ out to London – preferably, he’d agreed, by word of mouth. So even if she herself didn’t get through, that operation would go ahead. She thought that if she had the job of organizing it from Baker Street she’d think about using transient agents, routing some to or from their various réseaux via Rouen. Or even one-off visits for no purpose other than to empty the postbox, so to speak; parachute in, exit by Lysander a day or two later.
But of course it would be S.I.S.’s business, not S.O.E.’s.
Might settle for a quieter life, though, after this?
The top brass might decide it for her, anyway. Might decide she’d done her bit, in the field. Especially after Rouen: might wonder about her making it, another time.
She thought, Might well… Leaning forward again to massage her knees. The next stop would be Rennes, where the Delage team were to join the train. At least two men, Pierre had thought, perhaps three or four. Resistance, presumably. But what if he evaded them somehow – if they couldn’t do it and he stayed on her heels, got off with her at Landerneau?
‘Care for a tomato, dear?’
‘Why yes, thank you…’
It would quench her thirst, as much as anything. And since the old bag had found she’d got more there than she could cram in…
At Rennes, disembarking passengers were required to show their papers. She watched it happening, from her window, noticed that quite a lot got out and very few got in.
A trio of nuns. Road-hauliers in disguise?
It wasn’t funny, though. Nobody embarked who could possibly fit that bill.
Two German officers got in up front. Then further back, a schoolmistress with a flock of children.
Doors slamming, a whistle blowing. Rolling… The fat woman told her, ‘We disembark at Morlaix. Such a long way, still.’
‘Morlaix…’ Getting her mind to it – from extreme anxiety to total disinterest. With the Delage men still uppermost, for the moment: whether they could have boarded without her having seen them… She didn’t think so. ‘I’ve heard Morlaix’s a charming town. But – excuse me, madame…’ She got up, needing to visit the toilette, which was at the rear end of this compartment. César’s slitted eyes followed her towards him, picked her up again on her way back. Jean-Paul gazed at her too: grey head tilted back, dark eyes questioning. As if she could know the answer, for Christ’s sake…
She felt ill. Facing the fact that Delage or his people had let old Pierre down. Missed the train, or Delage hadn’t been able to get hold of them, or – whatever… He might have phoned back to Pierre to tell him, even. Not a damn thing Pierre could have done. He’d be sweating his guts out.
So – alternative to hopeless panic – what to do?
Stay on board right through to Brest, then go through the motions of looking for some non-existent individual, pretending to be shocked, horrified, etcetera? You’d end up arrested and back in the hands of someone like Prinz, but at least you wouldn’t have led them to Vidor. Disembarkation at Landerneau, in fact, was out of the question.
Morlaix? Try to use this odd couple as cover: get out with them, then run for it? One would have a chance, at least: if one got away with that much, then live rough in the countryside for a day or two and make it eventually to Lannilis?
Saint-Brieuc came and went. Nobody joined there who could have been any use.
But nobody would. They’d have joined at Rennes, or nowhere.
Face it – you’re on your own…
Next stop, Guingamp. Then Plouaret…
‘Your ticket, mam’selle?’
She showed it – tired, defeated, hopeless… Might just as well act the part; it was what she looked like anyway. He’d called her Miss instead of Mrs, perhaps because it wouldn’t have occurred to him that anyone would have married such a plain, dull-looking creature.
It would be Morlaix, next.
‘My dear…’
Glancing up at her. Like a great barrage balloon…
‘Like to try this cheese?’
It didn’t look bad, and she was being offered it with half a loaf of bread and that knife for a tool. She was quite hungry: the sandwiches from Pierre’s kitchen had been flimsy little things, and there mightn’t be much of a meal on offer tonight.
Wherever the hell one might find oneself, tonight. It wasn’t by any means a cut-and-dried situation, now.
‘Very kind of you…’
‘My pleasure, dear…’ She added, ‘Not far to Morlaix now.’
‘Where you live…’
‘Not at Morlaix, exactly – a short distance… Go on, dear, tuck in!’
After Morlaix there’d be Landivisiau: then Landerneau.
‘It’s excellent cheese.’
‘I’m glad you like it. My husband only needs a sniff of it to make an absolute pig of himself…’ She nudged him: ‘André – we’ll be there, in just a minute!’
‘Thank God.’
He’d shut his eyes again. His wife meanwhile packing things back into the picnic basket… ‘No, my dear, finish it. Please. We do very well down here, you know – and you’ve still a long way to go, eh? Going where, did you say? André – our bags are under the seat – if you could disturb yourself for just one small moment—’
‘When the train stops, I’ll disturb myself.’
The cheese had been wrapped in some kind of greaseproof paper. The bread had also been wrapped. Rosie had sliced most of the bread, was about to pass the knife back when she saw the woman repacking her basket: having forgotten the knife?
Apparently…
The heap of crumpled paper hid it. If she didn’t catch sight of it, wasn’t reminded… The train was slowing, letting off steam, southern outskirts of Morlaix drawing in on both sides. Rosie’s hands clutching each other tightly on the wrappings… ‘You’ve been extremely generous, madame.’
‘Oh, not in the least… André, will you please—’
Jean-Paul passed slowly up the aisle, up to the front end, his one hand transferring itself from seat-back to seat-back as he progressed; he glanced down and back at her as he passed. At the end he opened the connecting door and peered for a moment into the next carriage. There was no lavatory at this end, though – if that was what he was looking for. He shut the door and turned around, leaning back against it. There were very few passengers in this part of the train now: those for Brest, she thought, were all up front.
He was looking straight at her. She shrugged: a gesture of helplessness. Then he’d started back.
‘Monsieur—’ She’d stopped him… ‘Am I right that the next stop will be Landivisiau?’
‘Indeed.’ He didn’t look like a pimp, she thought. More like an ex-officer, a man of some distinction. A cold look, though: thin lips and eyes like brown flints… He’d nodded. ‘Landivisiau, then Landerneau. One other small halt shortly before Brest… Oh, Le Relecq-Kerhoun, is it?’
The knife was like a splinter in her mind. It had been there with a question mark beside it since the moment she’d realized it was hers. To start with, thoughts as vague as not looking a gift horse in its mouth: but fooling herself, surely, as much as clutching at a straw: there was at least the possibility – frightening as it was – of actually making use of it.
To put the lid on it now, Jean-Paul’s cold stare: asking her wordlessly, What for Christ’s sake are you going to do about it?
The obvious thing was to work it into the sleeve of her dress – the left one. One had done things with knives – as well as pistols – at Arisaig, the first stage of the S.O.E. agents’ training course. Glancing up at Jean-Paul again: ‘I think we’re approaching Landivisiau, monsieur. Shouldn’t you return to your seat?’
Because he had only one arm, and the train sometimes stopped in a series of powerful jerks. He was still staring down at her as she spoke, and she let him see the knife. Then when he’d moved on – with a surprisingly decisive nod – she craned round for a look at César, found him watching her over the seat-backs, looking anxious. She half-smiled, nodded reassurance to him before settling down again.
Bastard…
There were miliciens on the Landivisiau platform, one civilian policeman, a woman with several crates of hens. Nobody either boarded or disembarked. The guard’s whistle shrilled, the train jolted and began to roll.
Diddle-de-dum, diddle-de-dum, diddle-de-dum… Beautiful countryside, clear sky, enough breeze to move the upper branches of the trees. Sun well past its zenith, shadows growing from trees and telegraph-posts, cattle grazing in low-lying pasture where a river curled. The train pounded over a bridge.
Better not cut it too fine. Or wait so long that one’s faltering reserves of courage ebbed away.
Twenty minutes to go, say. Even twenty-five. Wait another ten?
Think of the pliers…
He watched her coming. She nodded to him as she approached, gestured to him to get up and come with her. The pliers could as well have been in his hand as Prinz’s: it was effectively the same hand. But in any case – no option, this whole thing now devolved on her. César still rooted – in surprise, uncertainty: she stopped, leant down to mutter ‘Must have a word.’
Assuming he’d follow… The other passengers either gazing out of windows or slumbering. Even with all the windows open it was very warm, but that wasn’t the reason she was wringing wet. He was following – thank God… She got the end door open, and held it for him to take – her right arm out behind her, the left one doubled against her with the knife in that sleeve.
Jean-Paul was coming behind César. She’d have been twice as scared if he hadn’t. And the sign on the door of the toilette mercifully read Libre. She’d let César catch the compartment door as she let go of it, and pushed the toilette’s open, side-stepped into it. Gesturing to him to follow…
‘So, what’s—’
He was stooping in the small doorway, confined by it. Rosie, inside, with more room to manoeuvre, and Jean-Paul outside, behind him: ‘Shut up and don’t move!’ César jerked near-upright, banged his head, was attempting to twist around, Rosie stopping that movement with an answer to his question – ‘This is what…’ The knife at his throat – letting him feel it: Jean-Paul’s hand clamped over his mouth. The slits of his eyes above the Frenchman’s dark, crooked hand were wider open than she’d ever seen them. She brought the knife down swiftly, slashing a hand as it grabbed at her – Jean-Paul’s hand shifting too, his forearm locking across César’s throat, wrenching his head back and crushing the windpipe, jerking the shocked eyes from Rosie’s in precisely the moment that she drove the knife in – two handed, under his lowest rib on the left side and upwards into his heart. One of the moves they’d taught at Arisaig. Jean-Paul had the dead man’s full weight on his one arm then: Rosie leaning back as far as she could, away from the flow of blood. He told her, ‘You’d better clear out. Come round this side. No, wait – the knife – leave it in the basin.’
‘Can you manage on your own?’
‘Of course I can—’
‘What about his luggage – could be papers in it, incidentally – yours too, though—’
‘Leave it. I know what I’m doing.’
Something more than a pimp, she thought.
And what about me, Christ’s sake?
She had blood down the front of her dress and on her cardboard shoes. Back in her seat – hands shaking, body cold with sweat, pulse-rate about two hundred to the minute – for the moment, limp, played out… Forcing herself back into motion then, she pulled an unlaundered blouse out of her grip and used it to try and clean up with. Without much success: it turned red itself but a lot had soaked into the wool. Brownish stains anyway, on the neutral-coloured material: she didn’t think anyone would know at a glance that it was blood. Might wear the old coat, though. Look like some village idiot, on a day like this, but – not exactly the Queen of Sheba anyway… Resting again – head back, eyes closed, trying to control her breathing, slow the pulse-rate… Wondering how Jean-Paul would be coping. Extraordinarily confident, purposeful – professional, in contrast to the frightened, fumbling amateur that she was.
César’s face – a brain-imprint of it, nightmarish – above that larynx-crushing forearm, the bulge of blue eyes forcing the slits open… Would he have understood – guessed why?
Pulse down to maybe one-twenty now. A mere two beats to the second.
The train too – that rhythm slowing…
Opening her eyes: Landerneau, already?
She’d only got as far as spreading the coat like a rug over her knees, was still clutching the bloodstained blouse in one hand. Looking at it now, wondering what to do with it: you couldn’t hide anything under these slatted seats… Then: Shove it back in the bag, stupid… Slower-witted than usual, even in a state of shock, perhaps. Blind panic only just round the corner: it had happened so fast, she’d been so unprepared…
So who’d done it? Other than little Rosie Ewing – aided by an assassin masquerading as a pimp…
Coat… Checking where the worst of the staining was on her dress, and how she might cover it by keeping her left hand in that pocket and holding it across her, letting the right side flap open. She pulled it on, then groped under the seat for her one piece of luggage. Thinking, Call these oil-stains…
From where she’d fallen in the Metro – and any that actually looked like blood, same thing, from the cut on her head… Be vague, no need to be sure whether its blood or oil, you can be wrong, won’t matter…
No-one else in this carriage seemed to be disembarking here. Maybe they could get out at Brest, from this end of the train… She was on her feet at the window, seeing the front part of it curving round. Beyond the signal-box, was where the platform would start. On the straight, now, thumping along very slowly. Signal-box coming up – now…
There were German soldiers on the platform – at this end of it – facing this way, about a dozen of them, watching the train puff in… They were waiting to board it, she saw then. Kitbags, etcetera… Beyond them, a group of railway staff and – yes, milice. Unfortunately… So she’d be asked for her papers. Bound to be: with very few disembarking here. She might even be the only one.
She sat down for a moment – irresolute, conscious again of her racing heart, not sure she had the strength… With no papers, and spattered with fresh blood – probably reeking of it—
It looked like a funeral party, beyond that group of uniformed officials. Men and women in dark clothes – twenty or more, most of them elderly – women in hats and veils, and—
Vidor?
Tall and well made, in a dark suit. It was him. Beside him, a girl, reddish hair visible under a floppy dark hat. And on her other side – that was Vidor’s wife, the rather chubby, jolly person who’d cooked breakfast. In black, like all the others. Either a funeral or – she guessed it – a mock-funeral, for her own reception? Vidor had spotted her, now – he’d pointed, calling back to the others, was moving along this way as the train began jolting to a halt: she reached down, got the door open as he came trotting up, reaching to take the bag from her, all the rest of them crowding up too. The redheaded girl called to her ‘Lucinde! Magnificent that you could come!’
Vidor’s wife was calling out that name too. Vidor helping her down, meanwhile – into the middle of the crush. ‘Remember me – Vidor?’
‘Of course, but—’
‘Your name’s Lucinde. This kid here is your sister Solange Brodard. Your father – Josef Brodard – died two weeks ago, you couldn’t make the funeral, it’s a Memorial service you’ve come for. Nobody’s going to question who you are, see—’
The redhead kissed her – screeching, ‘Lucinde dearest, wonderful of you to have come!’
‘My dear – this is for you.’ Vidor’s wife presented her with an awful hat with a veil on it… Vidor explaining while other women embraced her, ‘There was a family row, you and your father weren’t on speaking-terms, that’s why we’re all so happy you’ve turned up. Angel – I’d put the hat on if I were you – is the other business taken care of?’
‘Yes. It has been.’ Glancing back, murmuring ‘I can’t believe this…’ Thinking again of Jean-Paul – wondering how he’d been handling it… There were passengers at just about all the train’s windows by this time… She’d heard Vidor say, ‘There’s something else you truly won’t believe!’
‘Ma chère Lucinde.’ A priest – ruddy complexion, curly greying hair, kind eyes – cut in on him: ‘Bless you, my dear – ’ his voice was resonant, would certainly be audible to the milice, twenty or thirty feet away – ‘that your father’s soul may now truly rest in peace. We are all thankful that you should have found it in your heart—’
‘Father – excuse me—’
‘What? Yes, of course – we should move on…’
‘Angel.’ Vidor had taken one of her arms, the redhead was clinging to the other, the crowd still surrounding her as they left the platform. ‘The thing you won’t believe—’
‘Ben sends his love.’ The redhead, interrupting him. Very young, and pretty – lovely eyes…
‘You said – Ben—’
She nodded, and told Vidor, ‘Her name’s Rosie, anyway, not Angel.’
‘Rosie, then. But it’s true, he’s here. He was stuck here three weeks ago – the visit after they landed you. He wanted to come with us, to meet you, but that would have been insane. Same at the church, this service – we have to go through with it, you see, but afterwards—’
‘Not sure I’m not insane.’ She’d stopped, grasping his arm with both hands as if it was all that was holding her up. ‘Vidor – if it’s possible – please – I need a drink. Now, not afterwards…’