The street door clicked shut behind her, and the dark girl fixing a stout, blonde woman’s hair glanced round expectantly. There were two other customers, both under driers. Rosie’s first thought was that Jacqueline Clermont in her former, part-time employment wouldn’t have needed to exert herself exactly to get any man into bed… The smile was fading, though: as if she was surprised to see a face she didn’t know. Taking in Rosie’s looks – clothes, hair, and the sample case.
‘Be with you in a moment. If you’d take a seat?’
She was an inch or so taller than Rosie – after allowing for higher heels. Long black hair swept back: elegantly slim neck. Full mouth, eyebrows arching over wide-set slanting eyes. You could see her mother’s Italian blood in her, for sure. She was about Rosie’s own age. She’d reached to touch a bell-push; it rang on the other side of a curtained doorway, and almost immediately a younger girl – contrastingly ordinary-looking, in a pale blue smock identical to her employer’s – came pushing through it.
‘See to Madame Dettrier please, Estelle.’
‘Yes… Was I too long?’
‘No, it’s all right…’ Stepping back. ‘We’ll give it just five minutes.’ She left the blonde one – might have been a touch-up job done there, Rosie thought – and came over to her, smiling. ‘Sorry to have kept you waiting.’ Sensational figure, under the smock: Rosie felt envious. Also, that this was somehow unreal: you’d discussed her, thought about her, made your guesses and built tentative, possibly farfetched hopes around her, and suddenly here she was – asking ‘You’d like an appointment?’ Getting a closer look at Rosie’s hair… ‘Yes. Well… But it’ll have to be next week, I’m afraid.’
‘You must be good, to be so busy.’
‘At the end of the week I do tend to be. Busy, that is. It’s when everyone wants to come, and I close on Fridays at midday, open again midday Mondays. Monday afternoon, I might fit you in. Or Tuesday?’
She had her appointment book open and a pencil poised: glancing round to check on what was happening behind her. Rosie told her. ‘Tuesday’d be best. But there’s another thing – I mean I do want something done about this mop, but also I’d like an opportunity to tell you about our range of perfumes – Maison Cazalet, in Paris. The perfumes originate in Grasse of course, but—’
‘I did wonder what you had in that little case. But frankly, my dear, I rather doubt—’
‘Only a few minutes, just to tell you about them, let you try the samples?’
‘We could talk about it when you come in, I suppose.’ She shrugged. ‘Can’t very well stop a customer talking, can I?’ Another glance over her shoulder… ‘God knows there are times one would like to.’ A smile: ‘Tuesday morning?’
‘Could it be early?’
‘Nine o’clock?’
‘Perfect. We might come to a sale-or-return arrangement. If you were interested. Monsieur Cazalet’s concern is to have a stockist here in Rouen, another perhaps in Amiens—’
‘Amiens!’ The blonde woman let out a snort of laughter. ‘You might help her there – eh, Jacqui?’
‘I might, I dare say.’ An upward movement of her eyes indicated that she’d heard this kind of thing before, and that it bored her. Rosie looked at her hopefully, waiting to hear what the Amiens connection might be – apart from Colonel Walther’s headquarters being there, which would also account for this business being closed at weekends, in the absence of its proprietor. ‘La Minette’ added, ‘We’ll talk about it when you come. Would you like to leave the samples here meanwhile?’
‘Oh, no, I couldn’t—’
‘I thought for your own convenience. Dragging that heavy-looking thing around… But – Tuesday at nine.’ Pencil poised again: ‘May I have your name?’
‘Lefèvre. I’m a widow. On the other business, by the way – if you wanted a reference, the parfumeur – Pierre Cazalet, in Paris – he’s my cousin. I have his card here…’
Now for the long hike up to the garage. With a lingering thought in mind of Johnny – having mentioned her widowhood and seen Jacqui’s little conventional frown of sympathy – her thought was of the remoteness of her image of him, the ‘previous-existence’ quality which the world they’d inhabited more or less together had now acquired in her memory.
It could have been a film she’d seen. Dashing fighter-pilot, playing fast and loose in his spare time. Wife waiting for him really to come to earth: resentful, but ever-hopeful. Sucker…
Back up into the market square first, and across it. Germans all over, more of them than there had been earlier. She crossed the lower end of the square more or less diagonally, into the Rue Rollon and then turning left in Place Foch. Thinking about Jacqueline Clermont, how nice she’d been to her. Whether she could at heart be pro-German… More Nazi banners down to the right besmirched the vast grey frontage of the Palais de Justice, which being the local Gestapo prison was hardly named appropriately, in present circumstances. It had been mentioned in her briefing by the S.I.S. people: in the Middle Ages it had been home to the parliament of an independent Normandy. Some comedown, she thought. She was in Rue Jeanne d’Arc now, and the front of the Palais was out of her field of view. It fronted in fact on Rue aux Juifs – ‘the Jews’ road’: unless they’d renamed that one by now. She glanced at the near end of the building – grey, massive, threatening, with a sentry guarding a small side door where Germans were passing in and out under that foul emblem. Gaolers, interrogators, torturers? It was like coming across a wasps’ nest: you knew what it was because of the wasps going in and out. She thought again of the dramatic contrast – the crude brutality of those creatures against the elegance of the girl she’d just met.
Perhaps she shut her eyes, pretending it was someone else? Might be nuts about the bastard, too. Might under the veneer of charm be an enthusiastic supporter of the Third Reich. Or – like most of them – backing what she thought was the winning side.
The next crossing was at the Rue des Bons Enfants. She’d been in it at one stage of her wanderings this morning, had passed a picture-theatre plastered with swastikas and notices to the effect that it was reserved exclusively for the German soldiery. Soldartenkinos, they called them.
Over that road now, trudging on, the sample-case already about twice as heavy as it had been.
Would you like to leave your samples here?
Peculiar, really – even at its face value, only trying to be helpful. In the event, who’d have been waiting for her at nine o’clock on Tuesday? And then – imagining it – César at the cafe, worrying about where she could have got to. Might never have got to know, either. You’d simply have disappeared, into that chamber of horrors. As so many had already, in every part of France. Reports from former detainees in Fresnes prison – which as well as housing ordinary criminals was a stopover for those en route to the death camps in Germany – had provided answers in some cases.
Rue Thiers. A wide one, this. She had to wait while a convoy of four cars and a truck – petrol-driven cars, therefore Germans – drove past quite slowly, only one or two of the occupants turning their heads to stare at her. Boche V.I.P.s being shown the sights, perhaps. All motorcars had been requisitioned; to run even a gazogène you needed a permit. There were some exceptions: doctors were entitled to retain their cars, for instance, and some farmers their farm vehicles. And Romeo – and Louis – who’d mentioned that in Paris there were about 7000 licensed private cars, which gave one some idea of the extent of collaboration.
Still a lot of Rue Jeanne d’Arc ahead of her. The damn case weighed a ton: she was changing hands quite frequently. Thoughts of Jacqueline Clermont again; that quick warmth, spontaneity – as if they were friends already. Extraordinary: but very promising… Another crossing: Rue du Baillage. With a church off to the left… She paused halfway across for another military vehicle: a Mercedes, khaki-coloured with insignia on its mudguards, a soldier in the front passenger seat staring at her as it passed rather slowly from left to right.
Juddering to a halt. She’d only heard it happening – the brakes abruptly jammed on – looked back to her right now to see it swerve into the kerb and stop. Doors flinging open.
Christ. Christ, please…
Out-of-focus awareness of other pedestrians quickening their pace, turning abruptly to cross the road, pretending not to see. Along to her right, though, green uniforms stopping to watch. A yell, then: ‘You!’
They were waiting for her to go over to them on that side. An officer – quite young – and a sergeant. Abwehr, she guessed. At closer range she saw she’d guessed right.
‘Put that down. Your papers, please.’
She set the case down, rather carefully, and the sergeant snatched at it. She told him quietly – as evenly as she could – ‘It contains glass. Please be careful?’
‘Glass?’
She’d got her papers out, handed them to the officer.
‘Samples of perfume. I represent the Maison Cazalet, of Paris.’
The young man was flipping through her papers. The sergeant put the case down flat on the pavement and applied his thumbs to the catches.
‘Oh – you’ll need the key—’
He snatched it from her. She thought she wasn’t visibly shaking, but she could hear her heartbeats, feel them like fast internal hammer-blows.
Breathing wasn’t too easy either.
One fastener clicked up, then the other: he pushed the lid back. The lieutenant asked her, ‘Where were you going?’
‘To hire a bicycle.’ Past tense, she’d noted: as if she was no longer going anywhere. She nodded northward, the direction of the Rive Droite railway station. ‘Place I heard of – if I can find it—’
‘All right.’
She had her papers back. Had managed not to look down, to where the other one had the case open. She did now, though – had to – and saw him poking among the scent bottles in their little wool-lined niches with a blunt forefinger: he had the price-list in his other hand, must already have had a look at it. Glancing up: ‘Want some for your girl, Herr Leutnant?’
A frown: and a suggestion of a bow to her. ‘Thank you, madame. It’s routine, you know.’
A polite one…
Dry-throated, and feeling the coldness of all-over sweat, shutting and relocking the case, which the sergeant had left lying there open… She saw them climb back into their Mercedes and start away, on the move even before the slam of the second door. She got up: with the case locked again, heavy at her side. Disorientated, for the moment: she’d been in another world – or the anteroom to it. On her sore feet again now, getting herself together…
A sort of curve to the right, the waiter had said. Then there’d be a fork. This was the Boulevard de la Marne, all right: and the waiter’s ‘sort of curve’ was easy, only a matter of following the pavement around yet another ancient monument, a tower, crumbly-looking stone rising sheer from the cobbles. Looking for the fork, one branch of which would be Boulevard de l’Yser. Stay on this side, for the time being. Heart still thumping. If that sergeant’s thick fingers had probed just a little bit more cleverly she’d have been in the back of the Mercedes now with cuffs on her wrists. You had to put it out of mind, though. A near-miss, but a miss was as good as a mile. What was more, the sample-case had stood up to inspection. She’d crossed one small transverse road, and now a second, was about to ask for directions – from an old woman who looked as if she might have lived here all her life and might not for much longer, meanwhile despite the summer warmth was wearing a blanket with armholes cut in it – when she saw the half-obliterated road-sign: Boulevard de l’Yser. It was actually a continuation of Boulevard de la Marne.
Five minutes later, on her left and leading off from an open space where various roads converged – some unnamed Place – she found Rue Bras-de-Fer.
None too soon. Or as Ben Quarry might have put it, none too bloody soon. It was strange how he kept coming into her mind – even at a time like this – considering that for something like eighteen months all she’d done was try to forget him, his very existence… She was taking long, slow breaths, still needing to slow her pulse-rate.
‘Monsieur Pigot?’
She’d found big double doors that had once been painted green but showed only small traces of it now. Remnants of posters, too, stuck there and since torn off, and the timber’s lower edges rotted away. One door was open: peering into semi-darkness she could see several vehicles crammed in close to each other and – close-to – a man in overalls working on a lorry’s engine. The light from a caged bulb on a wandering lead was causing him to narrow his eyes, squinting at her as if he had only partial vision. Which would hardly be surprising, for anyone who worked for long in that half-light.
Quite an old man. Thin white hair, face narrow and pointed, like a whippet’s.
‘Help you?’
It was pleasantly cool, inside.
‘I was told I might be able to hire a bicycle – or buy a second-hand one. Monsieur Pigot?’
‘In his office.’ A jerk of the head. ‘There.’
At the back – a lit window, yellowish and cobwebbed. She murmured thanks as she edged round the old man, getting a strong whiff of horse manure as she did so – from the body of the truck, not from him as she’d first imagined. He was straightening, one hand massaging the small of his back: he’d put the light in its cage on the roof of the cab, and in turn was getting a good look at her as she squeezed by. It occurred to her that this might be stupid, risking herself in here: if he’d gone to that heavy-looking door now and shut it, she’d have been trapped.
Paranoia, she told herself. Occupational disease. It could on occasion save your life, admittedly, but still had to be kept under some degree of control.
The profile of the man in the office wasn’t exactly reassuring, either. A long, pointed nose, deepset eyes, two or three days’ growth of beard and a grim set to the mouth. She’d pushed the door open, rapping on it as she entered, and he was staring back at her from the other side of a littered desk. The light came from a lamp on top of a wooden filing cabinet – it also had a kettle on it – and there were some shelves, a telephone on the wall, and a pin-up of a provocatively posed, half-naked black girl on a door behind him. Cupboard door, probably. No window or skylight: just that lamp.
Faint but definite smell of urine. Perhaps that wasn’t a cupboard after all.
‘Yeah?’
He was less appetizing full-face, she thought, than he’d been in profile. Deathly pale, under the patchy stubble, and looking at her as if he hated her.
‘Monsieur Pigot?’
‘What if I am?’
‘I was told you have bicycles for hire. I need a good strong one – could buy one, if it wasn’t—’
‘Who told you?’
The eyes in their pits lingered on her sample-case. ‘Someone called Hardy. His first name’s Martin, I think. Do you have bikes for hire?’
‘Might have. I don’t sell ’em.’ He pointed with his head: ‘Take a seat.’ A wooden chair: she sat down, glad to rest her feet, and put the case down beside her. The chair wobbled, if you let it. Pigot was poking around among the junk on his desk, and eventually found a notebook.
Thumbing through it, to an empty page… ‘Your name?’
‘Lefèvre. Madame Jeanne-Marie Lefèvre.’
He wrote it down, very slowly.
‘Address?’
‘I haven’t one yet, I’ve only just arrived in Rouen. But I’ll be in touch with your friend – Hardy – if for the time being you’d take that as an address?’
‘Where’s he hang out?’
‘Don’t you know?’
‘Barely know the man. But you must, surely?’
‘As it happens, I don’t.’
‘Then how’ll you be in touch with him?’
She shook her head. She had the feeling she was being interrogated and that he wasn’t telling the truth. If he was, then Romeo had lied about keeping a gazogène here. In which case it was conceivable that she had walked into a trap. She glanced round – as if out of curiosity at her surroundings – and was relieved to see a rectangle of daylight out there – the door still open – and a nearer glow where the elderly mechanic was still at work.
‘Listen – I’ll give you an address when I have one, but I’m going to be out of town this weekend. That’s why I need a bicycle. How I’d contact Hardy – the simple answer is I’m bound to run into him.’
‘Don’t you even have a telephone number?’
‘If I had, there’d be no problem, obviously.’
‘Perhaps not… Would you be taking the bike far?’
‘Quite a distance. I certainly don’t want one that’s going to fall to pieces.’
‘Would you want a panier on it?’
She nodded. ‘And a carrier behind the saddle.’
He wrote that down: taking an age, with his tongue showing between discoloured teeth. She thought he might be simple: she’d already been here about ten minutes. He was sitting back now, studying what he’d written as if the accomplishment impressed him. Eyes on her, then: and a movement of the narrow head, towards the sample-case. ‘Selling something?’
She frowned, holding his stare.
‘My occupation, monsieur, is hardly your concern.’
‘Oh, isn’t it? When you want me to let you take a valuable machine away with no security, no address, no damn-all?’
‘I could pay a deposit. Would that satisfy you?’
He seemed to be thinking it out. As if it might be some new idea. Shrugging, then: ‘With no address, it’d have to be the full value of the bike.’
‘All right. If it has to be.’
‘But why the secrecy? If you’re selling something you have to tell people what it is – eh?’
‘I don’t like being interrogated, that’s all.’ She shrugged. ‘All right – I’m a parfumeuse. I represent Maison Cazalet, of Paris. Monsieur Cazalet happens to be my cousin. If you or anyone else cares to check with him, go ahead. Meanwhile, can we get this settled?’
‘Think you’ll make any money, flogging scent?’
‘I intend to, monsieur.’
‘Do, do you?’ The faint smile improved his looks considerably. ‘D’you know what they use for perfume in the countryside around here?’
‘I can guess. In fact I can smell it from where I’m sitting. But there’s Beauvais, isn’t there – and Amiens – Neufchatel, even.’
‘That far, by bicycle? Why not use the train? Heaven’s sake – in one weekend? Where d’you think you’ll be selling your perfume on a Sunday, anyway?’
She reached down for the sample-case. ‘I hadn’t expected either to cover the whole area in a weekend – I didn’t say this was a selling trip, did I? – or that just to rent a bicycle I’d have to put up with this – grilling.’ She shifted the chair round, on the point of standing up.
‘So now you don’t want a bike?’
He was probably a bit crazy, she thought. Shaking her head: ‘Not if it means sitting here much longer. On the other hand, if we’ve finished with the questions now—’
‘You’ll pay the full deposit?’
He’d glanced to his right, into the garage. She agreed – not in the least keen to have to start trudging around the town again – ‘Yes. If I have to.’
‘I have to be sure of you, you see. My questions weren’t intended to be personal. Bikes have been known to vanish, you know.’
‘May I see one – what choice there is – before we settle on it?’
Looking that way again. ‘I suppose…’ Hesitating again. ‘You see, not knowing anything about you – well, all right, you’ve given me that reference now, but—’
‘For God’s sake,’ – her voice had risen – ‘If you have the full value of the thing—’
The door opened behind her, startling her for a moment. The mechanic, she supposed – then saw in a glance over her shoulder that it wasn’t.
‘Bravo, Marc. Took me longer than I—’
‘Madame Lefèvre.’ Pigot, performing introductions: at this point she’d barely seen the newcomer – but she’d guessed, suddenly… Pigot confirmed it: ‘Martin Hardy.’ Smiling like some dogs can smile, showing the stained teeth. ‘My apologies, madame. I’d promised if you came before he got back—’
‘Romeo?’
He chuckled, offering his hand: ‘Your very own, my angel.’
She felt stupid – and annoyed – not to have foreseen this… She was looking at a man of about fifty: dark eyes, a seamed, tough face and a lot of greying, unkempt hair. Short of breath, telling her jerkily, ‘I was here a couple of hours waiting for you, had to see a guy then in the port. Anyway -you’re still here, all’s well.’ He pushed some of the rubbish aside on that end of Pigot’s desk, and perched himself there. ‘I’m sorry about this. But you were a bit standoffish earlier on, weren’t you?’
He had a smile that started in his eyes then spread through all the creases in the face. He’d know all about it, would have seen its effects often enough before, she thought. Johnny had had that sort of smile – not the same, by any means, but one he’d been able to switch on when he’d thought it would serve some purpose. She’d shrugged. ‘Didn’t suit me to meet you yet, that’s why.’
‘I know. And I’m sorry. My excuse is I’ve been waiting a damned age, for one thing, for another if anything unpleasant happened to either of us before we’d met – well, there are enough loose ends already, don’t you agree?’
‘I suppose you have a point there.’
‘Didn’t you suspect I might be here?’
‘No, it didn’t occur to me.’
What had occurred to her, she was remembering, had been to find the Bistro Suisse and get a preliminary look at him without his knowing it. So – sauce for the goose, Rosie… She added: ‘Perhaps because we’re supposed to be on the same side, it didn’t.’
‘Well.’ Hands opening defensively. ‘I have apologized.’
‘You said you’re a salesman?’
‘Agricultural machinery. Sell it, also maintain it, fix it – on site, usually on the farms. Second-or third-hand, all of it – all we can get. Not a bad racket though – gets me around, eh?’
Her first impression had been that he was wearing an ill-fitting suit, but in fact the jacket didn’t match the trousers, and neither fitted him.
‘You’re Mauritian, they told me.’
‘Am indeed.’ That smile again, briefly. ‘Both parents Mauritian, but my paternal grandfather was a Scot. So I read engineering at Edinburgh.’
‘Well, naturally…’
‘I like you, Angel. So glad. One doesn’t always, does one? Tell me, what is the position with our leader?’
‘César.’ She shrugged. ‘Wish I knew.’
‘You must have some means of contacting him?’
‘Oh, yes.’
She glanced away, into the dark cavern of the garage. Pigot had gone ‘to give old Roger a hand’, but more likely to leave them on their own, having first wheeled out a bicycle and given her a receipt for a week’s hire which she’d pay later. She’d demurred at having this conversation with Romeo here in the garage, suggesting instead that they might go for a walk together; he’d commented, ‘You don’t trust me at all, do you? Think there might be a microphone planted here? Well, you’re right to be careful. I don’t know if you’ve worked in the field before—’
‘Yes, I have.’
‘Good. But the thing is, we’re safer here. There are excellent reasons that we shouldn’t be seen together – if we can help it…’
Thinking of the Abwehr men in the Mercedes, and remembering that the Germans might be on the lookout for a female agent arriving in Rouen, she’d agreed with him. It had been no sacrifice to give up the idea of walking any further than she had to, either.
(Buy a pair of the wooden-soled shoes, she promised herself. The cardboard ones she had weren’t going to last much longer anyway. She’d seen the wooden ones in Paris: they weren’t clogs, the soles were sort of hinged, articulated.)
She’d said ‘Yes’, and no more than that, to his question about making contact with César…
‘All right. You have a way of contacting him, but you aren’t letting on. And he isn’t here yet – you know he isn’t, so you must have tried to communicate with him. Only thing is, how would I get in touch with him if you got yourself arrested meanwhile?’
‘You wouldn’t have to. He’ll have the same contact number for you that I had.’
‘Ah. That’s all right, then. Or will be, if he gets to use it.’ If César hadn’t been arrested, that had meant. Romeo added, ‘I suppose I’m not allowed to know what you’ll be up to this weekend?’
‘Sorry, no. If it’s any comfort, I won’t be telling César about it either. Wouldn’t be telling him now if he was here, I mean. Smoke?’
He took one. ‘So you’ve some independent brief with which you don’t need help… Angel – in the general run of things, I accept that your caution is entirely proper. But in this instance – present circumstances – isn’t it all the more so because I’m on Baker Street’s suspect list?’
‘Are you?’
‘Stands to reason that I would be – and that you’d know it. They’d have warned you. And obviously you wouldn’t tell me any more than you had to. The fact is, things fell to pieces here – quite suddenly. Drops were met by Boches, and the others of my réseau were –’ he’d lit her cigarette, now his own – ‘were rounded up. Some may be dead by now. And yours truly being the only one not taken out of circulation would suggest to Baker Street that I’d betrayed them all. Correct?’
It wasn’t easy, this. She nodded. ‘Probably why I was told to invite you home for debriefing.’
‘Debriefing, my foot. Third degree, more like. But – I welcome it. Please. Whenever they like, and the sooner the better.’
‘I’ll see about setting it up, then.’
‘You’ll be transmitting? Well, of course—’
She nodded. ‘Have to.’
‘Take care, Angel. I’ve been warned off – as you’ll know. The Boches might have broken my code – it would account for the drops going wrong – but I can tell you they were also homing in on me. I’d been using a bell-tower a few hundred metres from here, and – you know the routine, long-range bearings give them the position within about twenty miles, then the detector vans arrive, narrowing it to say three or four, and finally the portable sets – goons prowling around on foot with packs on their backs, trying not to look obvious. Didn’t get to that stage, because I spotted the vans – saw ’em before when I was in Orleans, trucks with canvas hoods to hide the gear – and I shifted away damn quick. Shortly after that was when London told me to shut up, and I was glad to, believe me… Incidentally, all I’ve had from Baker Street recently has been to expect you and César – that you’d contact me – no, that he would.’
‘That’s right. I was supposed to leave it to him. To that extent I’ve disobeyed orders. But since he’s not here – it was assumed he would be… D’you feel like telling me what happened – those arrests?’
‘You mean explain my non-arrest.’
‘Including that, obviously.’
‘Obviously…’ He sniffed. ‘From my point of view you might say fortunately. To put it mildly. And thanks largely to Max – our organizer, at that time. Anyway – there’s a highly clued-up S.D. man around – only a sergeant, but he seems to pull a lot of weight – name of Clausen. The rank thing might be just camouflage: if so it’d be his idea, he’s up to all the tricks. I haven’t met him – thank God – but I’ve seen him: good-looking guy, women like him and he uses that – so I’ve heard… Well – as far as I’ve been able to piece it together, he made his breakthrough with a French couple, sub-agents recruited locally, name of Sariet – René and Huguette. René worked as a courier and Huguette ran their flat as a safe house mostly for escapers in transit. Clausen got his hooks into René when a girlfriend he’d had in Dieppe informed on him. He’d been using her apartment regularly, but he’d got fed up with her, he was trying to put an end to it, and she shopped him. Enter Clausen, who had him pulled in, and mentioned in one of their cosy chats that Huguette was going to bed with our Max, in the Sariets’ house, whenever René was on his travels. He also told him it was Max, not the girl in Dieppe, who’d informed on him. Clausen would only have had to refer to him as ‘your chef de réseau’ – I don’t think he could have had any way of identifying him until then. If he had known who he was he could have arrested him without all this shilly-shallying, obviously. But it would have been quite believable, that story – lover boy’s motive having been to put hubby out of the way for good and all, d’you see? The only doubt – if I’d been in René’s shoes it would have seemed a large one – was that surely the organizer would have anticipated René getting his revenge by turning him in. And actually it would have been right out of character for old Max, he’s not – or wasn’t – such a damn fool. But René swallowed it, apparently – sexual jealousy can blind one to much the same extent that sexual passion can – and I dare say he didn’t know Max all that well – anyway, he gave Clausen his cover-name, address, telephone number – whatever he had. Oh, and another flaw in this is that if what Clausen had said was true he could surely have picked Max up chez Huguette any old time. Perhaps he gave René some reason for not having done so. Not having the address, perhaps, until then, only knowing it happened at a safe house. Something like that. What he did – there’s no doubt of this – he had the Sariet residence staked out, leaving Max on the loose while the others walked into the trap. Escorting shot-down airmen, maybe – but he nabbed them all in such short order my guess is he might have used the first as a stool-pigeon to lure the rest on. Then Max – before he could get the news and leg it.’
‘But you weren’t lured in.
‘I never went near that safe house. Never had. No reason to. I was a courier as well as pianist but I never acted as escort to escapers. The Sariets didn’t know me, nor did the other couriers. All they could have divulged about me was that the réseau had a pianist-courier code-named ‘Toby’ – that was my tag before this all blew up. The only person who actually knew me, you see – where I lived, what I looked like, what my cover was – was Max himself. Everything went through him – thank God – and when he vanished I didn’t run for it, for the simple reason that I trusted him. Wasn’t wrong, either – God bless him.’
She nodded. ‘Yes.’
‘Mind you – with all respect to him – respect and admiration – I’m not counting chickens. For instance, they might have left me loose so they could pick up any new agents coming in. You, for a start.’
‘Thought for the day, that.’
‘I wouldn’t put it past Clausen. It’s partly why I suggested we shouldn’t be seen together if we can help it. And to be honest, why I’d be very glad to have the break you’re arranging for me… Although it has been some while now. If I’d been under surveillance I think I’d know it by this time.’ A pause, then. Looking at her. ‘Think – couldn’t be sure… You’re very attractive, Angel. I guessed you might be, from your voice.’
‘As you mentioned, over the telephone. Misleading for any crossed lines, but let’s keep it for that – please?’
A shrug. ‘I was only paying a compliment – an honest one—’
‘Your friend Pigot is a sympathizer, is he?’
‘More than that. They killed his girlfriend. Looking for her brother. He was in a group that blew up the railway near Vernon, the Paris line, someone identified him and – well, he was on the run. So they took her.’
‘She didn’t—’
‘He’s still alive and kicking, so – no, she didn’t.’ Then – with his eyes on hers – as if reading her mind – ‘It can be done, you see.’
‘Yes.’ She looked down at her hands on the table, thinking that by exceptional people it could be done. Recalling Ben Quarry’s phrase, ‘the bravest of the brave’. Very exceptional people, she told herself. And until it happened—
Not until. Unless.
She looked up. ‘What else is there?’
‘Well – you’ll get in touch next week, you said. Whether or not César’s joined us by then?’
‘Probably on Tuesday.’
The doubt was whether she’d be able to arrange for the reception of both drops through that one individual in Lyons-la-Forêt. If she found she could, she might get back to Rouen on Sunday. Otherwise there’d be another day pedalling, another meeting, then a whole day cycling back. Monday – back here Monday night. Could be a tight squeeze: arrangements for the drops did have to be concluded – that was the priority – but it was almost as important that she should be here on Tuesday morning to keep her appointment with Jacqueline and then – perhaps, and please God – the rendezvous with César.
‘Will you be at your bistro on Tuesday?’
‘I’ll be – around. I don’t just sit there – for anyone to walk in on me, God’s sake. I wasn’t there when you called. They call me – elsewhere – I either call back or I don’t.’
‘It’ll be early afternoon, most likely. If you’re not there I won’t leave a message, I’ll try later – or on Wednesday.’
‘I’ll be there. One point, though – about this trip you’re making. You know, I’ve been around here quite a while, I visit all the farms, they all know me. Well – we don’t want to be treading on each other’s heels – right? In the longer term, we must coordinate our efforts, d’you agree?’
She nodded. ‘But with luck it may not be long before you’re flown out.’
He was offering her a cigarette, but she’d only just stubbed one out. He muttered, lighting his own, ‘I’d like to be out today. Believe me – soonest. But I’d also like to see some drops set up before that – to know it’s happening. As soon as possible – if it’s possible, now we have you as pianist. They had good reason to shut me off the air, but the shutdown’s not good for any of us – the boys out there need the stuff, they’d be using it if they had it. As well as stocking up for when the great day comes. They’ll begin to wonder what use we are to them, why they should risk their necks passing the airmen through to us, for instance – when it’s so very dangerous not only for them but for their wives and children.’
‘Yes. I know.’
‘Get a drop set up soon, d’you think?’
‘I don’t see why not. You’ve had requests, have you?’
‘Half a dozen.’
‘In which areas?’
Quick smile – through a screen of smoke… ‘I’m supposed to answer your questions?’ Drawing another lungful… Then: ‘Fix up my trip to England, Angel, I’ll park everything in your lap.’
She couldn’t push it. She’d have liked to have known, because of the drops that were already organized. When she met the man in Lyons-la-Forêt she wouldn’t know about any requests he might already have passed to Romeo, for instance. They’d know each other, you could bet on it: in fact his reticence now might be aimed at embarrassing her, to pay her back for keeping him in the dark. She couldn’t argue the point, either, without telling him where she was going and what for.
He was telling her – she’d been ready to leave, but he’d started in on it – about the present state of affairs in and around Rouen, including the fact – regrettable but not surprising – that the majority of the population were still primarily interested in getting by, which meant taking damn good care not to get involved in ‘subversive’ activities.
‘Mind you, having their men shipped out to the work-camps hasn’t pleased them. Serve ’em right – they’ve seen the Jews shipped out – men, women, children – and not lifted a finger. Well – helped with it, ordinary gendarmes did most of the rounding up. And denunciations from the public… But there is a suspicion here and there that the Germans may not win. Invasion in Sicily, defeat of the Afrika Korps… The Boches taking over what was the Zone Libre hasn’t made them any more popular, either. Stalingrad – that’s a big thing. People aren’t certain any more – and they’ll get a lot less so, more and more anti-Nazi – potentially so, at least – as Allied successes mount. The weathervane factor, eh? Pretty soon they’ll wake up to the fact the Boches can’t win… How long before the invasion here, any idea?’
‘None at all.’ She added, ‘Thank heavens.’
He nodded, knowing what she meant. With that kind of information in your skull you’d be a walking bomb. Romeo added, ‘What they’re harping on now – the Boches, in all their news-sheets and every time one of ’em opens his mouth, is this “secret weapon” story. To counter so-called “defeatist” attitudes, they’re claiming that once they get these magical weapons into action – any time now – England’ll be wiped off the map. And so forth.’ He changed the subject. ‘Didn’t bring any money, I suppose?’
She thought fast again… ‘César’ll have some.’
‘After you give it to him, you mean?’
‘What?’
‘Not that it matters, who brings it. I assumed you would have because I know you’ve come from London, and if the same applied to César you’d have arrived together.’
‘I don’t know where he’s coming from.’
‘If he doesn’t show – which God forbid – well, they’d send you someone else, I suppose. And if I’m getting out I won’t need any, in any case. Tell you the absolute truth, Angel, getting out is what’s mostly on my mind, right now.’
There was one thing still on hers, in terms of immediate practicalities: where she could move to, leaving the Bonhommes. The best thing would be to bid them farewell in the morning, having some other place lined up in which to hole up when she got back; and the immediate question was whether to risk asking Romeo for suggestions.
She’d be putting herself very much in his hands, if she did. She could imagine how aghast Buckmaster would be, at her even considering it. Or anyone else, for that matter. Marilyn: she could visualize the raised eyebrows, the expression of incredulity…
Fact was, her instincts told her he was straight. And since César, on whom she’d been relying, was conspicuous by his absence and might well remain so, where the hell else would she get advice?
It was a bit more than instinct, anyway. He looked about as trustworthy as an old crocodile, but there were things he’d said and others he hadn’t: and the way he devoured cigarettes, with that slight shake in his fingers – his nerves were shot, he genuinely did intend to accept Baker Street’s invitation.
She took a breath. ‘One thing. I need to move from the place I’m staying at. I was sent there, didn’t just take pot luck, but they have a daughter who’s pro-German and makes a habit of dropping in, apparently. Can you suggest where I might go?’
If he wanted to shop her he’d have plenty of opportunity, she told herself, even without knowing where she lived.
His dark eyes were thoughtful.
‘Mind if Pigot knows where you’ll be?’
‘Why should I – if he’s one of us?’
‘Anyone who knows anything about you adds some risk. I’m surprised you’re asking me – in present circumstances.’
‘You could give me away without knowing any more than you do already. Knowing where I’ll be living – could make it easier, I suppose, but that’s all.’
‘You’ve given it some thought, then.’
‘Of course.’
‘Well. I’m encouraged.’ He got up out of Pigot’s chair, called into the gloom: ‘Marc – spare a minute?’ He stayed there until he saw him coming, then turned back. ‘He’s consumptive, by the way. That’s how he’s avoided the labour camps. Also they accept he’s useful here – like me… Oh, Marc, sorry to bother you—’
‘Who’s bothered?’
‘Your friend Ursule – might she have a room free, d’you think, for Madame Lefèvre – a few days, perhaps longer?’
‘I’ll call her.’
‘Money no object, of course.’ He winked at Rosie. ‘But don’t tell her that.’ Pigot was dialling. Romeo murmured, ‘It’s on the Rive Gauche. She lets rooms, mostly to girls who – well, who ply a certain trade. It’s not a brothel, mind you—’
‘How reassuring…’
‘She inherited the house, decided to let rooms, it was how it turned out, that’s all. She’s taken people in for us before this, quite often – transients, you know… She’s a widow, husband killed in ’40, son about seventeen in the S.T.O. – know what that is?’
She nodded, listening to Pigot… ‘Ursule – it’s Marc here. I wondered – a young lady, friend of a friend, she’s looking for some place to live – I’m not sure for how long, but could be you’d have room for her?’
She wondered again if she wasn’t insane. It was too late anyway for second thoughts. Hearing Pigot murmur into the phone, ‘I think right away – but hang on—’
‘Tomorrow morning. I’d leave some luggage. Take the room from then – if there is one.’
It sounded as if there might be.
Take the money to the country with her? Or leave it in the locked bag at this house of ill-fame, whatever…
Or here?
Here, in this garage. In the new grip with the padlock on it, which she could bring here on her way out of town in the morning. Leave the money in that, and borrow something from Madame Bonhomme for her essentials over the weekend. A rucksack would be best. Easier to manage, especially as she’d have the sample-case as well.
She interrupted: ‘Marc – Monsieur Pigot—’
‘Hey, wait, would you?’ Scowling round at her – back to his old self for a moment – with a hand covering the mouthpiece: ‘What?’
‘I’d like to take the room from Monday. Not tomorrow. If I could leave some of my stuff here until then?’
He turned back. ‘Chérie…’
Meeting Romeo’s unsmiling gaze: disturbingly aware – as he was too, she could read it in that dead-serious look – of how irretrievably she was putting herself in his hands. He’d know where she’d be living: knew also that she’d be coming here early tomorrow and that she’d have the radio with her, and probably – as he’d already guessed – some fairly large sum of money.
She thought, In for a penny…
Pigot hung up. ‘She’ll expect you Monday.’