By 9.30, when the men were due, Adée and Rosie had washed the tables and swept the Dog’s floor; Adée had also riddled the cinders out of her stove and topped it up, and given the toilette a once-over, while Rosie took on the easier job of polishing and stacking glasses – Adée pointing out that Patrice having got away with it last night would be expecting to do it when he came on duty at 11 o’clock.
‘Won’t be coming with Georges, then?’
‘Doubt it. He’s a lazy devil.’ She had the door open to the street, to air the place. ‘And Georges is late, of course, but that’s his habit. Don’t worry, he’ll turn up with some cast-iron excuse… Morning, Susanne!’
A fat girl who’d been passing – people were walking or cycling past all the time – had stopped, just about filling the doorway. ‘Adée… Did you hear, they’re flying the tricolor over l’Hôtel de Ville as well as the Préfecture now?’
‘Who are?’
‘Why, the Résistance, surely! What’s more, they say there are barricades—’
‘Only in some side-streets here and there.’ Martin Leblanc, with a hand on the girl’s elbow, squeezing himself in past her. ‘Not on any of the boulevards or main streets. The Boches are still patrolling those, and they look as if they mean business.’ He patted the girl’s arm: ‘Run along, you’ll be late.’
‘Oh, I’ve been to early Mass, m’sieur!’
‘Run along anyway, there’s a good lass.’ He came on in, glancing back to make sure she’d gone. Then: ‘Georges not been in touch?’
‘No.’ Adée shrugged. ‘But when was he on time?’
‘Morning, Jeanne-Marie.’
‘M’sieur le professeur…’
He looked ill, she thought. Had shaved, and nicked himself in two places; his rather close-together eyes looked weary and had dark pouches under them, and his skin was yellower than she remembered it. Daylight, of course: but still… She asked him, ‘Did you by any chance – you know, Georges said you were meeting someone—’
‘No luck, I’m sorry to say. Something may come of it – at least the word’s out in that quarter now. But as of this moment, no.’ He was wearing a pullover instead of the black waistcoat, and a collarless grey shirt under it. Teacher’s Sunday gear… Asking Adée, ‘Want the door left open, do you?’
‘For air, yes – and for Georges, damn it…’
‘Any chance of coffee?’ Sliding himself on to the bench behind the left-hand table. ‘I’ve had nothing since I was here last night. Hell of a night, and now it’s worse. I’d better break it to you – not that one can be certain—’
‘One can be muttering gibberish, by the sound of it.’ Adée, on her way to the stove, shrugging and raising her eyebrows at Rosie; Rosie at the other table now, facing the distinctly rough-looking schoolmaster across the room. He’d looked less rough unshaven. Giving himself a cigarette but pausing, holding the packet up: ‘Anyone?’
‘No, thank you. What are you telling us?’
‘Had a nuit blanche, he said. Don’t make it more serious than that.’ She was very anxious, though, Rosie saw, clearly didn’t want to hear whatever bad news he’d brought. He warned Rosie: ‘If it’s what it looks like it’s more than just “serious”.’ His match flared: then, expelling smoke in a sudden gasp. ‘Nothing would delight me more than to have Georges walk in that door, but—’
‘Why shouldn’t he?’
‘Adée, the facts are these. Listen. I pray that I’m wrong, jumping to conclusions.’ The cigarette smelt like smouldering horse-hair. ‘Please, God—’
‘Please, Martin—’
‘First – no, not first, but I’ll start with this – at about six I had a telephone call from Henriette Fécantel, whose husband was running the show last night. It was with him – Alain Fécantel – the crook with the load of Schmeissers got in touch, you see.’
‘Go on.’
‘He’s not home. Alain is not at home. Wasn’t then and still isn’t. Well, twenty minutes ago he wasn’t. I checked again before I left. He’d guaranteed he’d be home before sunrise, and he’s a man who makes a plan then sticks to it.’
‘Well – if he can, but—’
‘No, wait. Henriette sent her boy round to her friend Antoinette Jabot – and Marc Jabot hadn’t got back either. They wouldn’t have been together, but the fact is they’re both missing. And there’s another – I forget his name, one of Alain’s younger follows—’
‘So they’ve been held up somewhere!’
‘Now we have Georges and Patrice also missing. Incidentally, I tried Georges’ number and had no reply. He could have been on his way to you; until I got here I didn’t know for sure. No, wait, Adée, there’s more – the worst of it, in fact, I’m trying to break this to you gently—’
‘Do you know the garage – where it is?’
‘I do, and I thought of that, of course, but’ – blinking at the rectangle of morning light and the people, shadows and reflections making their brief appearances across it – ‘I think it might be foolish to show one’s face around there. The Boches aren’t stupid; and – see, if a trap works once—’
‘Trap?’
‘Yes. Listen. Before any of that I had a visit from – you wouldn’t know him, his name’s Mishon. In regard to your business, Jeanne-Marie, Georges and I arranged for certain addresses to be watched for comings and goings, and Mishon was alternating with another man in Rue des Saussaies. From a scrap of garden on the other side from number eleven and further along – nearer the Montalivet corner than—’
‘Here you are, your coffee.’ Adée grim-faced, not looking at either of them. ‘Jeanne-Marie, want some?’
She didn’t. Watching Martin sip at his and flinch from the heat but persevere, really needing it: putting the mug down then and drawing deeply on his cigarette, telling them through the smoke, ‘At about one o’clock two SS trucks arrived at number eleven and a whole crowd of prisoners was herded into the building. Mishon was as close as he could get and watching for it because there’d been activity by Miliciens just before – the gates opened, torches flashing and so forth – but he heard more than he saw, because the disembarkation was inside the courtyard, and only by torchlight of course. But there was a Gestapo car as well, one of those Citroens.’
‘You said a whole crowd…’
‘He guessed a couple of dozen. Started off saying maybe fifty, then no, not that many. You can imagine, in the dark and they’d have been on the qui vive, and he’s got to take care they don’t spot him. It’s about right though, from what Georges said was being arranged – thirty or more, he expected. Anyway, when the trucks had driven away and it had gone quiet, Mishon got on his bike and he was waiting for me when I got home. About three, that was. I’d been at these meetings. He was worried, had he done the right thing – deserting his post, he called it. Old soldier – sixty if he’s a day.’
‘So Georges and Patrice, you think—’
‘I’ve told you what I know.’ Sucking loudly at the hot liquid, then continuing, ‘What’s your guess? I’ll tell you, anyway, we have to face this – far from that prospect of acquiring Schmeissers, putting ourselves in a strong position for whatever’s coming now’ – shake of the head – ‘instead, disaster. From your point of view as well, Jeanne-Marie, I’m not forgetting that. But across the board, disastrous. Our chief and five others, maybe the best we had – not to mention the other groups: Fécantel’s, Jabot’s. Ruard’s—’
‘Is there no chance you’re wrong?’
‘No. I was trying to convince myself. On my way here, telling myself Georges would be here large as life, explaining how they’d had to lie low in the garage because of Boches in the vicinity, or – whatever else.’ Another jerk of the balding head. ‘No. One knew it, too.’ Insisting to Adée – quietly, intently – ‘And we must now face it as it is – that they’ll either kill them or release them. These aren’t the sort of prisoners they’d work on – not for long – they don’t have the kind of information Jeanne-Marie’s friends have. But, Jeanne-Marie, you know the inside of number eleven, Georges mentioned to me that you were a prisoner there?’
She’d nodded. ‘They put one in cells in the basement – the cellars. From the rez-de-chaussée there are winding stone stairs leading down. One passed armed sentries, then came to a locked iron door with a grille in it, then more concrete passage to another locked door. A guard drove one along with the butt of his rifle, you know, one wasn’t given time to stop and look around exactly – but then there was a smelly, concrete – vault, you might call it. You’d get a lot of people in there, all right, maybe that’s where they’d put them. But beyond it are doors to inner cells. Mine had one barred window high up, nothing else. For interrogations they took one upstairs… Are you thinking of breaking in?’
‘No. Thought of it, but – we’d get ourselves killed, get them killed too. Whereas if we just wait… I know what I said, but – a while ago they did release a whole lot of prisoners; and what would they achieve by killing these? Or for that matter from knocking them about – even if they knew anything the Boches don’t already know.’
‘Your guess is they’ll interrogate them, get nothing, let them go.’
‘I’d say there’s a good chance they will. Especially as they seem to be taking a soft line now. The tricolor, for instance – and doing nothing. Incredible, isn’t it?’
‘Ignoring the one on the Préfecture, I was told yesterday, because they don’t want to provoke a rising and have to send troops and tanks into the streets.’
‘So by the same principle, why would they murder those – what, thirty-five… Was it the SD man’s woman told you this?’
‘Yes. Not that I was questioning her – the flag was there. I’d mentioned it, was all. Look, I’m sorry, Martin – I mean, to be any sort of burden to you now. You have a hundred things to cope with. I have only the one, well, fixation. And now since you’ve had this setback—’
‘For Georges and Patrice, quite a setback!’
‘I know, Adée – and believe me—’
‘As far as your task is concerned,’ – Leblanc again – ‘you’re set back, huh?’
‘But I’m meeting this SD man today—’
‘The SD thing.’ Adée looked at Leblanc. ‘Who might have taken part in last night’s business.’
‘If he did, it’s not likely he’d be talking about it. But naturally, if he did—’
‘Might I offer some advice?’ Leblanc was lighting another cigarette. ‘I’m sure you know your business, Jeanne-Marie, you wouldn’t be here if you didn’t – and all I know is resistance business. But it seems to me you need to be very, very careful. This situation now – well, look at it – the Boches permitting us to display the flag of France, but at the same time sending a supposed black-marketeer to Alain Fécantel – knowing Alain for what he is and where to find him, knowing also our desperate need of weapons and using that as a bait we couldn’t refuse—’
‘But they are getting out of Paris. Aren’t they? Not all at once, but—’
‘They’re patrolling the boulevards. Holding Paris. A lot of non-combatants – clerks, specialists and technicians – have been cleared out. But last night’s operation – they weren’t backing-off on that. See what I mean, Jeanne-Marie?’
‘It’s a point – and thank you – but I can’t just sit on my hands and do nothing, when—’
‘Don’t underestimate this man. If he’s SD he’s a trained interrogator. Smiling to himself, waiting for you. D’you trust the woman?’
‘I think so. Yes. For the same reason she won’t inform on him – in a way.’
‘I’m sure you know what you mean.’
‘Hard to explain. How she is, that’s all.’
‘I shouldn’t be lecturing you, I know.’ Thin smile, and a shrug: ‘Force of habit – my apologies. But – to approach such a man with questions, if you were thinking of—’
‘No. No questions – other than trivialities. One can show interest, of course.’
There was an occasional outbreak of small-arms fire that didn’t come from the directions of either the Château de Vincennes or Mont Valérien, where most of the daily hostage-executions were carried out. Maybe they didn’t do it on Sundays anyway. But these occasional fusillades, Leblanc had said, would be from the barricades with which communist elements of the FFI were reported to have been blocking some back-streets, giving the impression of Resistance-controlled neighbourhoods. There’d been talk of it last night apparently at meetings all over Paris, including two which Leblanc had attended in the hours around midnight, representing Dénault and his Gaullist FFI group, and supporting arguments against premature action in the streets. Arms raids in several locations, including one on the Hotchkiss factory and of course Fécantel’s at that garage, were scheduled to take place during the weekend, and the Gaullist preference was to wait until they had those weapons in their hands, at least a chance of standing up to the enormously better-armed and organised 16,500 remaining Boches. It was also a matter of playing for time, for representatives who – touch wood – would by now be on their way to Eisenhower’s headquarters to plead for immediate intervention.
Leblanc had people out now, rounding up other members of Dénault’s group. Later the Blue Dog would be packed, for alternatives to be discussed and decisions taken in the light of the night’s disaster. The schoolmaster had told her, ‘As Adée will confirm, I’m our group’s leader now – temporarily, at any rate. And I have it here’ – tapping his forehead – ‘I’m a planner, I can see ahead a little – but I don’t have Georges’ personality, that forceful leadership. I’ll do my best, that’s all – and pray we have him back with us very soon.’
Rosie rode south by way of Boulevard Magenta and Rue du Temple, with the Tour St Jacques as her leading mark, wanting to see for herself the tricolor on l’Hôtel de Ville. And there it was: she could tell Jacqui she’d seen it. L’Hôtel itself was said to be full of FFI who’d taken possession of it at first light. She heard rifle-fire again then – from the left bank and some distance off – vicinity of the Panthéon maybe, or the Sorbonne. Leblanc had dismissed all of that as ‘Playing soldiers. Barricades that’d hardly stop a bicycle, let alone a tank.’ But to assert their own questionable authority they’d shoot over people’s heads, he’d said, make them stop and identify themselves, and insist to all and sundry, ‘If you’re not for us, you’re against us!’ and ‘A chacun son Boche!’
In contrast to which boys and girls were splashing in the river, under this blaze of sunshine and cloudless sky. In her thoughts as she rode north-westward Rosie contrasted this gentle, pretty scene with how it would be for Georges and the rest of them in that cellar. There’d been a bell to ring, she remembered, when one wanted to go to the lavatory, and as long as it wasn’t between 8 pm and 8 am a burly Gestapo female would eventually turn up and take one to it. But with more than thirty of them… Better not to think about it, even. Pedalling west with the sparkling river on her left, having passed the Louvre – this now was the Quai du Louvre, with the Tuileries up ahead and the sun on the river, shrill cries of the bathers; swinging over and closing in to the right-hand kerb then as an armoured troop-carrier trundled by, overtaking her. Gone: with its load of goons in helmets. Place de la Concorde now: and the bridge, and yet more swimmers and sun-bathers. Rue des Saussaies would be – what, a kilometre from here, roughly due north? Perhaps less: 750 metres, say. Cycling due west now with the Invalides off to her left, its dome golden in the sun, and beyond it the gaunt vertical of the Eiffel Tower.
Maybe they would let them go – Georges and company. If they did, when she next saw Georges he might be able to tell her whether there’d been any other prisoners in that building.
Jacqui answered the ring of the doorbell within seconds, must have been waiting for it. Would have been: one had to realise, she’d be nervous too.
She didn’t look in the least bit nervous. She was wearing what in England before the war had been known as ‘beach pyjamas’, floppy cotton trousers and a hip-length top – vine-leaf pattern, brilliant green. Glossy dark hair swept back and shoulder-length, wide eyes lightly shadowed, small jade earrings. Rosie, in the outfit she’d had on at lunch the day before, felt even dowdier than she had then.
Jacqui drew her inside. ‘Hurrah, you made it!’
‘You’re stupendous, Jacqui.’
‘I told him.’ A whisper, as they kissed. ‘And that I persuaded you to come, because you’re someone I can count on.’ Voice up again: ‘You’re looking marvellous too, I may say!’
Playing her part, all right. While Rosie made her effort – feeling idiotic as well as scared – an idiot for coming here, taking on the ‘trained interrogator’, and scared because – because she was, while at the same time being very much aware that it was essential not to look or sound as if she might be. Nervous, and/or shy – fine, no problem, but never scared. That was her play-acting, and so often had been: while Jacqui might have been overdoing it a little – gushing, rather. Mightn’t Clausen, who’d no doubt be in earshot of this, pick up the falsity? Anyway they were inside by this time, the new-looking door had clicked shut and Rosie was saying, ‘Marvellous, my foot. Scruffy little country cousin just come to visit, more like it.’ Glancing round: ‘What a nice flat.’
‘We were lucky – Gerhardt took it over from a friend who was leaving. Come on through. I don’t think he’s finished changing, hasn’t been back long. He’s kept so busy – up half the night, and then—’
‘This is a lovely room!’
‘It’s not bad, is it? And – here, come and see…’
French doors led out on to a balcony, on which a glass-topped table was set for lunch but still left plenty of room. Wicker chairs with bright cushions – all very pretty. And a fine view to the west and north-west – ignoring the immediate foreground, a street lined with houses and further up-slope a wide intersection – that was the way she’d come, on Friday. Two days ago was all; it felt like at least a week. Jacqui pointing: ‘Lucky those houses are in a dip so one looks right over them. To the left up there are the gardens – Ranelagh, named after some English place, I’m told – and the rest of it, all that forestry up behind—’
‘Bois de Boulogne. Lovely walks, right on your doorstep.’
‘Two thousand acres, yes, but unfortunately full of soldiers just now. They rest them there under canvas, whole regiments in transit – from Normandy, Gerhardt says, resting-up before continuing – oh, to wherever, don’t ask me…’
‘I won’t, I promise. One thing I do hope, Jacqui, is we’re not going to talk about the damn war!’
‘Is there anything else to talk about?’
Clausen, behind them, joining them on the balcony. Rosie glancing round, startled – which was all right, why not be? The timing in fact had been fortuitous: it couldn’t have been accidental that he’d crossed the room – parquet floor, uncarpeted – as quietly as he had; if she’d been saying anything she shouldn’t have, he’d have heard it. And one might have, might have thought that out here a conversation would have been safe enough. There were lessons in that too – not least, that he’d suspected they might have had confidences to exchange? Looking at him now rather shyly, answering that question with, ‘I’m sure there must be. Could talk about Jacqui for instance – who’s even more beautiful than she was a year ago. Isn’t she incredible?’
‘Well, yes, I have to admit…’ His French was only slightly German-accented. Tallish – in a silk shirt, cravat, off-white cotton trousers, loafers with tassels on them. Could have been a character in a Noël Coward play: and yet was still Germanic.
Through being conscious of his own membership of the Master Race, in the company of Jacqui and herself?
Membership of the SD, at that. Shaking hands with him, for Christ’s sake – Jacqui having introduced them. He was good-looking – as she remembered from a year ago. Late thirties, with a summer tan and dark hair greying at the temples. He looked good standing beside Jacqui, and vice-versa. But like a couple in some advertisement, she thought. Or – again – the Noël Coward play… Hearing him say to Jacqui, ‘I do remember now.’ Meaning that he remembered her. Releasing Rosie’s hand: ‘We met in Rouen, of course. When Jacqui mentioned it I didn’t immediately recall—’
‘No reason you should have. Five minutes or so – as I remember it – and you only had a day or two, you’d been away and—’
‘I am impressed by your memory, Jeanne-Marie. Is it all right to call you by your first name? Jacqui’s been going on about you and your anxiety on her account, and that’s how she refers to you in telling me about it.’
‘Quite all right. Yes, I am concerned for her.’
‘As I am myself – very much so—’
‘Jeanne-Marie: an aperitif of some kind?’
‘Oh. Perhaps – fruit juice?’
‘Or a glass of wine? Gerhardt has a Riesling from Alsace which I personally—’
‘Well—’
‘I’ll get it. For you too, Gerhardt?’
He’d nodded. ‘Please.’ Pulling back a chair for Rosie, then. ‘Do sit down. You must need to – all the way from Vincennes by bicycle?’
Where they were putting her, she’d have a view of that panorama of woodland. Jacqui would be on her right, Clausen was already on her left. Asking her did she smoke, would she like to: no, she told him, she wouldn’t, French cigarettes were awful now as well as rationed and expensive, she was within an ace of giving up completely. ‘But you were saying – about our shared concern for Jacqui… I suppose sooner or later you will be leaving Paris – France, even – and it’s not possible to take her with you?’
‘No.’ A frown, and a gesture of helplessness. ‘I should like to very much indeed, but—’
Jacqui returning. He’d flipped open a pewter cigarette-case. ‘The French ones aren’t fit to smoke, I agree. As it happens, these are German – Jacqui smokes them—’
‘Don’t I just! Light one for me, chèri? But now here we are, Jeanne-Marie.’ Bottle and three tall green glasses on a tray. ‘It’s not as cold as it should be, but—’
‘Without electricity there’s little one can do about that, unfortunately.’ Clausen stood up, to pour the Riesling. ‘Mind you, its absence gives rise to greater inconveniences than having to drink a wine that’s not as well chilled as it might be – uh?’
Rosie nodded. ‘Hospitals, for instance.’
‘Indeed. You were a nurse, Jacqui mentioned.’ Sitting again, and lighting two cigarettes. ‘So glad you were able to come today, Jeanne-Marie… Where did you do that – the nursing?’
‘In more than one hospital. Most recently at Nantes. And as a trainee at first, which was mostly scrubbing floors and so forth, here in Paris. But I’m not really cut out for it, I’m afraid. When I met you in Rouen of course I was trying to sell perfume – and Jacqui was so kind to me…’
‘That job didn’t last long, I understand.’
‘You’re right, it didn’t.’
‘And you have a child – little girl – for whom you’re searching now in Paris?’
‘She’s with her grandmother – my late husband’s mother. The old woman must be crackers, but I do know she’ll be looking after her. Trying to steal her from me, I suppose. It’s a long, boring story – via Nantes to Dijon, then here – no, Rouen first—’
‘To find Jacqui, eh?’
‘Partly. But I was seeing another friend there too.’
‘And in Jacqui’s salon they gave you this address?’
‘Yes. Eventually.’
‘That Portuguese she’s taken on?’
Rosie looked at Jacqui. ‘I believe I’m being interrogated.’
‘I beg your pardon.’ Stiff-faced, formal. German. ‘Such was not my intention – only it is surprising—’
‘I’m surprised that such details should be of interest. I got the address – here I am!’
‘The surprise to us both arises from the fact that he was told not to release such information. So much for him.’ To Jacqui: ‘But it might not be easy to replace him. And as things are now he might be better on your side than as your enemy. Perhaps just caution him?’ Back to Rosie: ‘You told Jacqui some customers were gossiping about her relationship with me?’
‘Yes. Not that your name was mentioned. Only – you know – catty remarks. Which in the long run it struck me could be lethal.’
‘And that’s what brought you here. For which we’re both grateful. Not that we aren’t in any case well aware of that danger. May I ask you – with apologies in advance – one more question?’
‘Go ahead.’ She nodded to Jacqui. ‘This is a good wine. From Alsace, you said.’
‘Which is currently German again but may very well revert to French occupation before much longer.’
‘You think you’ll soon be right out of France?’
‘Out of Alsace too – if you’ll allow me my own historical perspective. But – almost certainly. They won’t stop before the Rhine, that’s for sure. And now we’re talking about the war, which you particularly requested we should not?’
‘I thought the subject was wine.’
‘So it was. Yes, all the Alsace whites I like very much. But my question – a serious one, Jeanne-Marie – is about Jacqui again. You’re worried for her, and so am I. She, on the surface anyway, less so. Is that also your impression?’
‘Talking about me like this – as if I weren’t even here—’
‘The motive behind her display of sang-froid being, of course’ – continuing to Rosie – ‘to make it easier for me, although the predicament is very much her own. I tell you, Jeanne-Marie, I love this woman very much indeed.’
‘I understand it’s mutual.’
‘I too. I have had some evidence of it, even.’ Joke: thin smile to label it as such. Rosie wondering how Jacqui could stand him, let alone be in love with him. Even that ‘love this woman very much indeed’ had had a coldly formal ring to it. False ring. Adding now, ‘Should be straightforward therefore, but unfortunately that’s not the case – on account of complicating factors of which I believe you know. Hence this question now: you intimated to Jacqui yesterday that you have a practical suggestion – what we could do, what she could?’
‘Well.’ She took another sip, and put her glass down. ‘No great brainwave, I’m afraid. Rather obvious. Simply that she should get out of Paris and stay out until things have settled down.’
‘Until the Resistance has finished taking its revenge, you mean.’
The riposte in her mind was that might take a bloody century. She didn’t say it. Instead, ‘Stay away from Rouen too. That would be as bad – having heard those women. They’ll be denouncing people to prove they weren’t collaborators. But there’s this farm not far from Nantes, where my child and the old woman were. A quiet, hard-working couple, getting on in years, with a house larger than they need. I could take Jacqui there and introduce her as a friend who’s been ill, needs peace and quiet.’ Looking at Jacqui: ‘Peace and quiet’s about all there is; you’d be bored out of your mind, I warn you. But – second thought – might let it be known that you were a résistante.’ A nod towards Clausen. ‘Might have been in his hands?’
‘In my – hands…’
Staring at her, hard-eyed. Inducing in Rosie a not totally unfamiliar tightening of the nerves. But one was here, and hadn’t contrived to get this close to him merely to indulge in small talk, couldn’t expect to be smiled at all the time. Bull by the horns, therefore: ‘Aren’t you in the SD – don’t you have prisoners, interrogate them – torture even, send them to concentration camps, and so on?’
‘She’ – a head-movement towards Jacqui – ‘tell you this?’
‘It’s common knowledge, what SD do. Even in Rouen I knew that was what you were – Jacqui’d have told me that much, obviously.’
‘Well… For your information, Jeanne-Marie, I have conducted interrogations – yes, many times. But where your imagination may run beyond that, and off the rails a little – torture, deportation—’
‘No.’ Jacqui, quietly: ‘He could not—’
‘He might not, but having established a prisoner’s guilt it would follow, wouldn’t it?’
Blinking at her, thinking about it. Deciding to ignore it then, telling her, ‘What I am, Jeanne-Marie, is an intelligence officer. As such I’ve many times identified and arrested, or caused to be arrested, enemies of the Reich. You might say that’s been my speciality – detective work. Now, most of my time’s spent sifting, collating and summarising intelligence, compiling daily and weekly reports for my Berlin head office and for OKW – the General Staff, that is. I tell you this in confidence, obviously, but – not so terrible – uh?’
‘Intelligence to do with the Resistance, by any chance?’
‘Why ask me that?’
‘Well – for Jacqui: and this is perhaps a brainwave. Why not draw up a report on her? It’d be absolutely authentic, wouldn’t it – you’d make it so – and she’d have it leaked to her somehow, could use it as proof she’s only been with you in order to work against you. Passing on your secrets – who’s going to be arrested next, that sort of thing? You’ve caught her out and she has to run for it. You wouldn’t file the report, perhaps, because of the nature of your relationship. Might even go so far as to suppress it – warn her?’
‘I believe I’d shoot myself.’
‘Alternatively – as a loyal German officer – or sergeant, is it—’
‘I am an officer. Using the rank of sergeant and dressing as a civilian is a special dispensation from my superiors, facilitating my work in certain ways.’
‘Right. As a loyal German officer, then – the report exists, say, it’s on your desk, you might be in two minds about it but – do you have staff, some of them French?’
‘Most of our clerical employees are French.’
‘One of them secretly working for the Resistance is how Jacqui might get to hear of it. How she’d have got hold of other material too. Anyway, she’s tipped off. What then? Well, if she doesn’t immediately disappear you would confront her with it – arrest her, I suppose – have to, wouldn’t you, no matter how agonising that might be for you? But then – well, how long have you got? Mightn’t you be recalled to Germany at any moment?’
‘I might. Yes.’ He’d reached over to put a hand on Jacqui’s: a gesture that might have made him seem more human being than secret policeman. To Jacqui, it might have done, but to Rosie it seemed wooden – a stage-direction followed unconvincingly. Shaking his head: ‘One doesn’t know. No one does. There is a considerable degree of administrative confusion – in the circumstances perhaps inevitable. That’s what’s at the back of all this, isn’t it?’
‘But – two things… One: if you were going to do this, or something like it, it might be best to draft the report right away – have it ready. And two: Jacqui getting wind of it wouldn’t hang around, would she – knowing she faces arrest, being locked up and then God knows what? Locked up where and by whom, incidentally?’
‘What d’you mean?’
‘Well – Gestapo, or—’
‘Why should that detail concern us – concern you – in any way at all?’
It was the sort of question, she realised – seeing Jacqui’s look of surprise, alarm even, as well as the sharpness of his reaction – that she should not have asked.