The way she was trying to make herself look at it was that this was only her second day in Paris – first full day, at that – and she’d already (a) made contact with Jacqui and would be seeing her again in a couple of hours’ time, (b) established a working relationship with Georges Dénault and would be seeing him again this evening. Those were the facts: whereas the way one felt—
Jinking left, to avoid an old man on a tricycle. Those had been rifle or pistol shots. Hostage-shooting from the Vincennes castle? No – too far, those had been much closer, and scattered shots, none of the discipline of a firing-squad. Earlier, there had been more distant bursts of rifle-fire which might well have been from Vincennes: but what this might be…
The old man with his beret and white beard was now stuck on the wrong side of the road: a gazo lorry had only just managed to avoid him and there was a lot of shouting going on. But also pedestrians being drawn down that way: some standing, staring, shielding their eyes against the sun while engaged in loud discussion of it, others trotting off in that direction – from which there was yet more shooting. Sub-machine-gun: Schmeisser maybe – short burst, pause, longer burst, and shouting drowned out by a car-horn either stuck or with a thumb jammed on it. Rosie freewheeling down that way and listening for more. Coming – had come – from somewhere to the south from here, distance perhaps a kilometre or so: or less, since she could already see traffic piling up. And wanted a sight of – of whatever…
She swung to the right. Had been on the Boulevard de Magenta with Gare de l’Est somewhere on her left, was peeling off now into what turned out to be Boulevard de Strasbourg. Then left, into Rue du Château, which seemed to run parallel to Magenta – more or less – and might get around that hold-up, which surely must be caused by that – disturbance… Another option now – a road that must cross Magenta as well as this narrower street. Holding on, anyway. Having heard no more shots. And to the right now, into Rue de Langry. Must be within a long stone’s throw of the Place de la République, she guessed – re-envisaging the map, essentials that she’d memorised. A problem down there, she remembered, was that the same line of boulevard running more or less east and west changed its name about every 500 yards. OK, so boulevards plural, but all end-to-end, all effectively one and the same. Whatever it was, this fracas, she had to be close to it now. Whizzing on down and edging kerbward, where people were running, shouting to each other. The focal point, she guessed, was going to be the intersection of Rue de Langry and the stretch of boulevard that called itself St Martin. An end to guesswork then, she could see it – two Boche trucks looking as if they’d collided, and other vehicles parked around them, three, surrounding them at different angles. The trucks’ doors that were in her range of vision were open, and from the nearer one a soldier hung out head-down, helmet hanging by its strap, blood puddling the road. Tailboards were down, men inside were passing out rifles and ammunition-boxes which others – Frenchmen – were loading into the gazos.
Dénault’s growl, in recent memory: Although God knows we need arms…
Getting them, too. Or those might be Reds. She was close enough now to be at risk of finding herself in trouble when any live Boches finally turned up, close enough also to see two other dead ones in the road. One gazo, a light-coloured van, was moving off – along Boulevard St Martin – and a man in a vest and surprisingly a striped apron – butcher, fishmonger, from les Halles? – was slamming up the tailboard of a pick-up truck. Nobody was going anywhere near the dead Boches; despite a lot having run away there were quite a few just standing, gawping – as she was too, she realised; might be wiser to make herself scarce; any minute there’d be troops all over this district, wouldn’t be exuding charm either – especially not after finding those dead ones. Thinking of Léonie and Rouquet again, of the fact that if one was taken as a hostage one would be of absolutely no damn use to them at all. Little enough now. Turning the bike around, to start back up Rue Langry; deciding it would be advisable not to be on any route that might have taken one through that intersection: they’d want witnesses, descriptions of individuals and vehicles, and wouldn’t care how they got them. Back to Boulevard Strasbourg therefore, and south on that: it would take her into Boulevard Sebastopol, and on that she’d get right down to the Seine. Having come originally from Vincennes, of course: slightly roundabout route, just coming the way she knew.
It was a lovely morning, although there’d been some rain during the night apparently. She’d slept on a pallet on the floor of the front room in the little house Adée shared with an elderly female relative, and for breakfast they’d had ersatz coffee and amazingly fresh bread and dripping. The night had left her voraciously hungry again – as well as aching in every joint and muscle – but she’d been careful not to take advantage of Adée’s generosity, especially as she’d be having – she hoped – a decent lunch.
More than Léonie would be getting, she thought. If she was alive. Might have been alive yesterday, might not be by this time tomorrow. And you could bet would not be eating any sort of lunch; the rest of it didn’t bear thinking about. All right, so this was one’s first full day in Paris, and one had taken a step or two – one hoped – in the right direction; but what if Jacqui backed out and Dénault failed to come up with anything?
The man with the high voice had been in her thoughts a lot, ever since she’d woken. Last night she hadn’t been able to question Dénault about him, he’d been in a hurry to get away, had told her angrily, ‘Tonight. Talk tonight!’ Close to the end of his tether, seemingly. The fact was, she’d known of Henri Lafont and the ‘Gestapo of Rue Lauriston’ from way back – lectures in her training days and occasional references to him since then, the particular angle that concerned SOE having always been the French gestapists’ infiltration of Resistance groups. Hadn’t thought of them in connection with this business, though, and there hadn’t been a mention of them in the two and a half days of briefing at Fawley Court. But – with everything here in a state of flux, SD and Gestapo pulling out – and the Rue Lauriston gang, she remembered having been told, having cells of their own…
Connection between Lafont and Clausen?
If there was a possibility those two were being held in 93 Rue Lauriston, and indications being that whoever was holding them must have had them more than a week now – ten days, maybe… SOE’s expectation of agents who were caught was that they should hold out under interrogation for at least two days, forty-eight hours, in order to give fellow-agents that much time in which to disappear; whether or not one would be able to achieve that had always been one of the prime anxieties.
But ten days…
At the intersection of Boulevards Sebastopol and St Denis there was another hold-up, Feldgendarmes stopping everything from crossing until several troop-carriers and an armoured car had passed – westbound, coming from the arms hijack. Helmeted SS troopers staring grimly at the crowds: looking, she thought, for blood. They’d spill some too – hostage blood, probably a lot of it. They’d still have a few hundred hostages stashed away, she guessed – traffic offenders, curfew breakers, black-marketeers. Or people who’d done absolutely nothing. Like oneself – innocent young woman cyclist remounting as the traffic began to move again.
From that intersection to the river was about a mile, with the spires of Notre-Dame as a leading mark almost dead ahead. Then Quai de Mégisserie, and no more than 500 yards to Pont Neuf and over it to the island.
The Restaurant Paul was on the Place Dauphine, close to the narrowing western end. There was already a crowd of customers at and around the outside tables; many were barristers, male and female, in black gowns with white bibs. The Palais de Justice was only a short stroll from here. She spent a few minutes finding some railings and chaining her bicycle, also taking off the old raincoat – leaving it on the bike’s carrier, where it should be safe enough in these highly respectable surroundings – and by that time very few tables down there were still unoccupied. If any. Not a single uniform amongst all that lot: the impression was of business as usual, a lot of comfortably-off people enjoying themselves. No sign of Nazi occupation, let alone of coming insurrection.
Why Jacqui had chosen this place, maybe. If she was coming. Twelve noon now, half an hour to go. In such surroundings, the beautiful and ancient heart of a lovely city, and its inhabitants so apparently unconcerned, laughing and chattering, it might be easy for her to turn a blind eye to the danger she was in. Pretend it’s not there, and it won’t be? But – strolling eastward along the quai, passing the Palais de Justice – she remembered Dénault’s account of collabs (and ‘ultras’, meaning ultra-collabs, effectively the most virulent French Nazis) all mustering in the Rue des Pyramides on Thursday night, and his regret that there’d been SS around, that wistful otherwise we might have had a really jolly little party – meaning, jolly little massacre…
The SS wouldn’t be there for ever, she thought.
Ahead of her now, in what was roughly the centre of the island, that solid-looking building of which she had an end-on view – with a forecourt the size of a parade ground behind tall railings – that was the Préfecture de Police. And beyond it – looking slantwise across that stone frontage – the Cathedral of Notre-Dame. But there was a whole mass of people, she realised – on the quai and clustering along those railings. Noisy, milling around excitedly, not just Saturday midday promenaders… Anyway – time to turn and go back, she thought, put herself where she’d see Jacqui when/if she did turn up. Primarily, whether she’d be alone or brought by car – and if the latter, whether by Clausen or—
The flag being hoisted over the police headquarters was the Tricolor. She’d paused – seeing and hearing the crowd’s suddenly increased excitement – and was caught up in it now: gazing up as hundreds of others were doing, at the flag of France. At any time since 1940 when the swastika had replaced it, displaying it would have resulted in immediate, summary executions. Tricolor climbing the mast jerkily: was at the top now, flapping in the breeze. The crowd cheering and clapping – had gathered to see this, must have had notice that it was going to happen. Pointing up at it, waving to it, blowing kisses to it: cheering, slapping each other on the back, shaking hands, kissing, whooping. While inside the railing a mob of men in shirtsleeves were surrounding one who was standing up on something – joined by two others now – on the back of a truck, must be…
The striking policemen. None in uniform, but taking over their own headquarters. And not a Boche in sight. That was a situation which might change dramatically at any moment, she realised: envisaging, the arrival of truckloads of them – armoured cars, tanks, machine-guns. Instead – gradually, at first, a few voices barely audible but the sound swelling fast as others – within a few seconds the whole crowd – joined in, bawling out the Marseillaise. Inside there, the gendarmes too were singing. Faces upturned to the flag, expressions – well, some grave, but mostly wild with joy. Rosie trying to sing with them – to her own surprise crying too, which made it difficult. A stout woman threw her arms around her, kissed her, screamed in her ear, ‘Courage, petite!’ Rosie kissed her back, laughing as well as crying, and noticed an old man standing ramrod stiff, saluting, and tears coursing down his cheeks. Having to get back to the Place Dauphine now though: and asking herself en route – getting her feet back on the ground, as it were – what good any amount of flag-waving and singing of anthems could do for Léonie and Rouquet.
That was all she had to think about. Wasn’t here to get emotional over the imminent liberation of France, was here to save two lives. Moving as that undoubtedly had been.
They were eating inside the restaurant. Jacqui had booked an inside table, and the ones outside were all taken anyway. She’d arrived on foot, alone, from the direction of the Quai d’Horloge. She was looking marvellous in an off-white cotton dress, sleeveless because she’d taken the jacket off, hung it over the back of the chair together with her handbag, which made Rosie’s – Léonie’s – look like something that should have been thrown away years ago. Two male lawyers at a nearby table were giving Jacqui a lot of attention. Rosie got some too, but Jacqui really was quite strikingly alluring. Rosie, in a lilac-coloured skirt and top which she’d owned pre-war but had thought was still quite smart – it was the only smartish thing she’d brought with her – felt like some poor acquaintance out of an altogether different social milieu.
At least, though, not like a collab or high-ranking Boche’s mistress. Miaow… Asking Jacqui quietly, ‘Did you know the Préfecture has a tricolor flying over it?’
A nod. ‘Heard some people talking about it, on my way here. Then all that singing and cheering. Watching, were you?’
‘Yes. The Germans won’t let it stay there, will they? Any minute there’ll be – well, God knows…’
‘From what I hear, they’re trying to keep it all low-key.’
‘Who are?’
‘Germans. They don’t want to provoke the rising that’s obsessing you. Or was doing so yesterday. The last thing they want is to have to order troops and tanks into the streets.’
‘But there will be a rising, Jacqui.’
‘Here’s our soup.’ They were silent while it was served – a vegetable broth of some kind. Jacqui had ordered wine too, a carafe of Pelure d’Oignon which she’d told them to put on ice if they had any, and after the soup they were having what the restaurateur called chevreuil – venison – but which Jacqui said would probably be goat. The waiter had left them now.
Rosie told Jacqui quietly, ‘To imagine that there might not be would be putting your head in the sand. I saw two truckloads of rifles and other stuff being hijacked this morning. Trucks had collided – maybe through one of the drivers being shot or something. By the time I was close enough to see what was going on the drivers and some others were dead in the road – looked dead anyway, and there’d been shooting, I’d heard it from some way off – and résistants were transferring the loads to other vehicles. What would they want guns for, if not to use them?’
‘How would they have known the trucks had rifles in them in the first place?’
‘Some insider tipping them off?’
‘What is it you want of me, anyway?’
‘Your help – in return for which—’
‘You’ll protect me.’ Glancing round, and a gesture with one hand. ‘From all this.’
‘Shall we be serious, Jacqui?’
‘What exactly do you want?’
‘I’d like you to back me up – as Jeanne-Marie Lefèvre with whom you made friends in Rouen a year ago, and whom you ran into again this morning – where, by the way?’
‘Wherever you like!’
‘Somewhere Gerhardt would know you might have gone to shop?’
‘Rue Froidevaux, then. Near the Montparnasse cemetery – off Boulevard Raspail. I go to a dressmaker there sometimes.’
‘Well, fine. I could have been trolling around there, for the old woman and my child. Cheap hotels and rooming houses around there, aren’t there?’ It was where Ben had lived when he’d been struggling to become a painter, just before the war: keeping his head above water by washing dishes in the big hotels. ‘Subject of my background, Jacqui – you’d have asked me this – to start with I could have hung around in Rouen a few weeks longer than I did; he wouldn’t have known; he was leaving that weekend, wasn’t he? But eventually I had to admit you were right, I couldn’t make any sort of living flogging scent – so I gave that up and went back to nursing. I’d done some training, never completed it for various reasons. Then I found the old woman had moved from the farm where I’d left them into Nantes itself, and more recently from Nantes to Dijon – all that. You wouldn’t remember every detail, it’s not all that riveting.’
‘You want me to back you up, you say. But in what way, and what for?’
‘Well – if I should meet Gerhardt, for instance.’
‘Do you expect to?’
‘I’d like to. Didn’t we more or less agree this, Jacqui – meeting by chance so we can then see more of each other – not as if I’d deliberately sought you out? So then naturally I’d meet him as well – if you were so kind as to invite me?’
‘With what object?’
‘Actually, that’s a bit vague. But not to steal him from you.’
‘What a relief!’
‘I thought it might be. But seriously, not with any intention of damaging his interests, either. In your own words, not in any way to do the dirty on him.’
‘You hope to get information of some kind, obviously.’
The soup-bowls had been removed. Rosie said, ‘Nothing to his detriment. Or yours, of course. For instance, you can be sure I wouldn’t say anything that might suggest you’d ever worked for us.’ She saw that register: followed up with, ‘But it did occur to me – tomorrow being Sunday—’
‘That I’d ask you for lunch.’
‘Oh. Lunch… Well – would you?’
The waiter was smiling at their smiles. Serving the chevreuil from a small casserole; there was some kind of sauce with it, and mashed swede. A much younger waiter, a lad of about fifteen, poured the wine – which was cold. When they were left alone again Rosie said, ‘You mentioned that you get good rations from some German source, Jacqui. I’d very much like to lunch with you at your flat. Let this be my lunch, therefore.’
‘It’s not cheap here.’
‘Never mind that. But listen – is there any risk, if I did come, of that Lafont creature barging in?’
‘You know his name, then. Yesterday you didn’t.’
‘I’ve remembered. There and then I thought he might be some high-up Milicien. But his bodyguards wouldn’t have been in mufti, would they, even though he was? Anyway, I realised – I did know about him and his organisation. Operating from Rue Lauriston, and – frankly, not nice at all. A partner by name of Bonny – and an office lined with steel? He was a petty criminal, wasn’t he, the SD or the Abwehr took him on and he recruited his gang of thugs from that same source – prisons?’
‘Quite a lot, you know.’
‘We got to know of him because he was considered a danger to us and to Resistance groups.’
‘And to Jews. Especially rich ones. He had a huge commercial racket going. They went to the camps, and a large cut of whatever he could prise out of them went into his pockets. He has a very high style of life and – I told you – a whole succession of women.’ She murmured, ‘A marquise, even, and other – oh, high society.’
‘That amazes me.’
‘Well. Power, and lots of money, the very best of everything. Scent of danger too – I suppose…’
‘Is he a friend of Gerhardt’s?’
‘No, not at all.’
‘But they work together?’
‘They know each other, their paths cross, but—’
‘He wouldn’t turn up at your place if – well, if he saw Gerhardt’s car outside, for instance?’
Jacqui sipped some of the odd-coloured wine. She shook her dark head. ‘I told you, I am not conducting an affair—’
‘But he’s chasing you and Gerhardt doesn’t know it.’
‘I don’t think Gerhardt suspects it. He’d have no reason to be concerned at all. And I don’t want – trouble, especially at this juncture. On the other hand he is very perceptive, and one doesn’t always know what he’s thinking.’
‘Wouldn’t it be as well to tell him, rather than have him find out? Since in any case you’re innocent of any—’
‘Is it Lafont you’re after?’
‘After?’
‘Come on, Jeanne-Marie. This isn’t just a social get-together, is it?’
‘I happened to be accosted by that man when I came to visit you. Since then I’ve remembered what we were told about him, but when I came to see you I’d forgotten his existence. So – no, I’m not after him, just wary of him.’
‘Could I persuade you to tell me what you are after?’
‘Yes. There’s something I believe your Gerhardt might help me with. I want you to introduce me as your former acquaintance from Rouen, so that – well, in the hope I might establish enough of a rapport with him to be able to discuss it. It seems to me that if he accepted me as your friend – and with the balancing consideration that I could help you, Jacqui—’
‘To put that over, you’d have to admit who you really are.’
‘Oh. Well…’ A shake of the head. She’d known this was going to be difficult. But also that it was what she was here for, she simply had to get on with it. Would almost certainly have to face Clausen himself – unless of course Dénault came up with the goods this evening. Meanwhile, why should it be easy or even half easy? Léonie wasn’t sitting in any restaurant, sipping wine… ‘Perhaps not exactly who or what I am. I’m well aware that he’s SD – and getting myself arrested wouldn’t do either me or anyone else, including you, any good at all. But I might admit to having some personal involvement with—’
She’d checked, thinking about it. Then: ‘Jacqui, I’ll tell you. Friends who might be in SD or Gestapo custody. Two people for whom I have – a warm regard.’ She gestured… ‘I suppose I’ve said too much now. Putting you in a difficult position. The fact is, I’m in quite a hole. So – may I ask you to respect that confidence? It’s an explanation for you alone, I’m not asking you to do or say anything at all—’
‘Just have you to lunch.’
‘That’s all.’ Then she’d have to take the bull by the horns, all right. Hoping to God there’d still be some point in it, that they were still alive and had not been either broken or shipped east. She drank some of the now somewhat less cold but still refreshing, clean-tasting wine. ‘Is Gerhardt a kind man, Jacqui?’
‘In himself, he is. And certainly to me.’
‘Does he feel as strongly for you as you do for him?’
A flush – whether of embarrassment or annoyance. Then: ‘I believe he does.’
‘Is it possible he’ll take you back to Germany with him?’
‘Possible but unlikely. There’s a complication – of the obvious kind—’
‘I only asked because I was told the German embassy’s issuing passports to – what’s the word they use, I don’t speak German – Vertrauen, is it?’
‘I am not pro-Nazi, Rosalie.’
‘Jeanne-Marie – please. No, I didn’t think you were. Oddly enough. The word I was trying to remember means “trusted ones” – how I imagine they’d regard you if he did ask for a passport for you.’
‘You say “oddly enough”, but the simple truth is I’m pro Gerhardt Clausen and I’m pro me, Gerhardt’s business is his own, my business is him… Listen – talking about you for a change – would your papers stand up to close examination?’
‘Yes, I think so. Why, if you have friends to lunch, does he ask to see their papers – at the door, or before the soup, or—’
‘The German embassy closed yesterday, incidentally.’
‘Oh.’
Jacqui put down her knife and fork and reached for the carafe, topped up both their glasses with the little that was left. Forgetting, perhaps, that Rosie was the hostess now. Adding, ‘Gerhardt mentioned it last night. Both of us knowing how that affected us, why he was telling me. How it is, that’s all. Except that in the longer term—’
‘He’s married, I suppose.’
‘Yes.’ Taking a sip. ‘And it’s been no secret at any stage, I’ve always known it.’
‘In the longer term, you began to say – might sort itself out?’
‘Might.’ She crossed two fingers. ‘Much longer term. If one could really see that far ahead – as sometimes one dreams one can. Or know how people will be, after such a length of time and God knows what upheavals. Yes, one hopes…’ She changed the subject: ‘You have a man, you told me. A fiancé – who’s in your Navy? But that wedding ring—’
‘Not his. Not yet. But – yes.’
‘I’m glad – for you, but also that you’ll understand me.’
‘Understand you very well.’ Not adding, this time, ‘oddly enough’: accepting what she was saying about herself and Clausen despite knowing very well that she’d had – well, more than just a few men. Hans Walther the rocket-site engineer for one, numerous others when she’d been working for a woman then known as ‘La Chatte’, a double agent who’d overplayed her hand and was currently in Wormwood Scrubs. When working for her Jacqui had become known as ‘La Minette’ – the kitten. Rosie asked her – in the hope of slipping this one past her guard – ‘What sort of work is Gerhardt doing now, in Paris?’
A frown: ‘I don’t know anything about his work, we don’t discuss it. As I warned you—’
‘Only wondering whether he’s still laying traps for – you know, people like me. That evening in Rouen when I was in your flat and he blew in, I can tell you I was shaking in my shoes. Got away with it that time because – well, he was obviously crazy for you, hadn’t seen you for a long time, and—’
‘That’s exactly how it was.’ A smile in her eyes, remembering. ‘But in fact, why should he have suspected you of anything, at that stage?’
‘God knows. The way they work, you could just as well ask why should he not have. Just as now I’m wondering whether going to lunch with you might be – insane.’
‘Depends what you’re really up to, I suppose. But – it’s your risk, don’t look to me for—’
‘No.’ The risk had to be accepted, too; she had no alternative. ‘Come about midday, shall I?’
‘All right.’
‘A second thought, though. The business of having run into each other just by chance… Thing is, since your man and Lafont see each other from time to time – might do today, tomorrow, even?’
‘For all I know—’
‘Lafont might have mentioned having seen me at your place? If he’d only been calling by on the off-chance of finding Gerhardt at home?’
‘I don’t know why he’d bother.’
‘But he might. And that’s too much of a risk – for you to have kept it from him, lied about it. So tell him I was there, and we arranged to meet today. I had the address from your Portuguese – went to see you at the salon, heard customers sneering about you and your German lover—’
‘Were they?’
‘Certainly. Gave me the willies. I was worried for you before, but the way things are now—’
‘It might make better sense if you had any practical way of helping. Unless you’re ready to admit what you are?’
‘Hardly. But I do have the beginnings of an idea – and I’ll work on it. We can say you didn’t want even to discuss it except in Gerhardt’s presence. It means getting you out of Paris – before he leaves, so you’re not left here on your own. D’you see?’
‘I would want him to hear it.’
‘There you are, then. The truth, nothing but the truth. Tomorrow, Jacqui.’