TWENTY-SIX

Armand ran forward and started to tug at the crate. Ramelle’s corpse seemed to cling to it, his arms draped across the top. Even though bloat had filled his face, Duchene could see where a bullet had entered the priest’s neck. The crate wouldn’t budge, so Casin and Jean rushed to help pull it free, causing the body to peel to one side before sliding onto the floor and releasing new plumes of decay into the crypt. The stench sent a warning to some base instinct – stay away, death is here.

Covering their mouths, Casin and Jean lowered the crate to the floor. With his good hand, Armand flipped open the reinforced latches and threw back the lid. Wooden brackets held a neat row of rifles in place. They were stacked three rows deep, and only four were missing.

Philippe approached Duchene and put a hand on his shoulder. ‘How did you know?’

‘Where is Madame Noirot?’

‘Upstairs. Alive. Locked in her room until the German was taken care of.’

His relief was lost in the river of emotions that was coursing through him, but he knew, intellectually, that this was good news. ‘I came to visit her the other day. Some things didn’t make sense to me, and I wanted to know if there was another way to enter and leave this crypt.’

‘Yes? And?’

‘There is. A false wall, a door, connected to the Catacombs. I made a brief search, looking for signs of Ramelle, and all I found was dust, bones and the smell of something dead. But when I spoke to Olivier, Kloke’s French lover, he said Kloke had shot the priest in the church. This must have planted the seed in my mind. When I smelt the decay just now, it finally emerged.’

Casin and Jean had found a short crowbar among the rifles. It was the perfect size for opening the crates and, so it would seem, sealed tombs. Within moments another capstone crashed to the floor, revealing a second crate. Armand fell on it and tore off the lid. Grenades. Pistols. Some had been taken, but most remained.

Duchene crossed the room and placed his arms around Marienne.

‘Did you know I’d bring us here?’ she said, pressing her face into his shoulder.

He moved his face closer to her ear. ‘Later. Right now we need to leave, before they realise what Faber was trying to saying to them.’ Duchene wiped the tears from his eyes and took her hand.

By the light of the oil lamp, Jean, Armand and Casin were examining the contents of the second crate. Philippe was crouched beside Faber’s body, going through his pockets, checking his wallet and recovering his Luger.

‘We’re going,’ Duchene told Philippe. ‘I trust you’ll do the right thing by the priest.’

‘Wait a moment,’ Philippe held the Luger in his hand. Although it wasn’t pointed at them, Duchene would have preferred if it was tucked in his belt. ‘I have a question. Did you tell the girl about the crypt? How did she know to bring us here?’

Duchene’s mind was feeling spent. Slow. He knew the right answers were vital but he was having trouble forming them.

‘He didn’t need to,’ said Marienne. ‘I listened to the conversations around me and filled in the gaps. But how did Armand and Casin know where to find you?’

Smart.

She’d moved the conversation on. Guided them away from the details of their getting here.

‘They called us at your building. You’re lucky you made such a convincing case to bring the German to us. It was a smart plan. A lot rested on you, convincing him your father could lead him out of Paris.’

Philippe found the Roman cameo ring on a chain around Faber’s neck, glanced at it, and tossed it into a dark corner.

‘People can be misled when they’re desperate and drunk,’ Marienne said.

‘People can be dangerous when they’re desperate and drunk,’ Duchene added.

‘We could use someone like you,’ said Philippe. ‘This fight isn’t over yet.’

Duchene shook his head. ‘I don’t have much fight left in me.’

‘I was talking to your daughter.’

Marienne blinked. ‘And if I want to, how do I find you?’

‘The Sorbonne. In the library. We’ll make our base there.’

With a nod, she took Duchene by the arm. They left through the door into the gloom of the cellar. He brought out his trench torch. Its glow was dim now, almost gone. He had used it more in the past four days than in the past four years. The bulb needed replacing. It was enough, however, to help them find their way across the cellar.

Marienne took hold of his arm – guiding him or seeking comfort, perhaps both. She waited until they’d ascended the stairs to the sacristy before she spoke. ‘Did you know for certain where the cache was?’

‘Not until I had that gun to my head.’

‘You could have died.’

‘I know.’ He paused. ‘The radio beside Faber, back in my apartment – did he use it to send those tanks to Olivier’s?’

‘Yes. I told him that Resistance members had gone to 54 Rue du Château-des-Rentiers and were going to capture Kloke.’

‘It saved my life.’

‘That’s what I hoped.’

‘Thank you.’ He felt the expectation of her silence, that this was when he should stop and hold her, but he kept moving. Not everything had fallen into place yet. ‘Was Faber in my apartment before the Resistance arrived?’

‘No. Philippe saw him coming, from across the street. Drunk, with that machine gun barely hidden under his coat. I told them who he was and that I’d bring him to the crypt, where they could surprise him without risk of being seen by Germans.’

‘You did well.’

‘I’m glad he’s dead.’

Duchene turned to face her. ‘Marienne, where’s Max?’

‘Gone. Berlin.’

‘But his suitcase was still being packed.’

‘He said he couldn’t take me.’

‘Marienne?’

‘Is that what it was like when she left? Did you feel the same towards one another, or did she love you less than you loved her?’

‘I don’t know. I don’t think it works like that.’ Duchene held to his point. ‘What did you do, Marienne? Max wouldn’t have left without his sidearm.’

‘I didn’t know you were in contact with the Resistance. If I had, then maybe I could have led them to him. He was leaving, deserting, and he refused to take me. He gave me no choice – I couldn’t stay in Paris and be called a collaborator. So I called General von Bühel.’

‘Von Bühel?’

‘You met him at the Ritz last night. He sent them over.’

‘Sent who?’

‘Gestapo.’

‘Marienne. Where is Max?’

When she returned his gaze, he understood a distance had grown between them. She was directly opposite him, but he felt as though she was a kilometre away. She didn’t move. She didn’t blink. Without expression, she said, ‘Executed.’

***

They didn’t speak as Duchene drove the Fiat back to Marienne’s apartment, and a strange silence had fallen over the city. He watched as citizens moved back to their homes with the coming of darkness, so that by half-past-nine there was no one to man the barricades.

The Champs-Élysées was almost empty. Duchene watched a truck of Germans drive along it, furtive and cautious. A civilian truck, its sides labelled with FFI, turned out from a side street. He stopped breathing as the trucks neared each other, but nothing happened. They passed by with determined indifference.

In the cupboard below Marienne’s staircase, there were only traces of blood. Stahl’s body had been disposed of. But unlike Duchene, she didn’t slow down to look. She hurried up to her apartment and checked the door. The frame was still splintered and broken.

‘You could stay with me,’ Duchene said, walking up behind her.

‘I’ll nail it shut and prop it with a chair.’

‘And if the Gestapo return?’

‘Won’t they come looking for you?’

‘They will come for both of us.’

‘What will you do? Turn over Philippe?’

‘That would be a death sentence. I would have betrayed the Resistance.’

‘So what will you do?’

He held her gently by the arms, and she stared at the ground. ‘I can’t know what you’ve experienced, Marienne. The decisions you’ve had to make. I’ve made my own decisions, many desperate. Many that served only one purpose – to survive. But when I stood in this apartment earlier today and thought you were dead, I didn’t want to live. The thought that you would not be in this world, that you could be taken from it, was so overwhelming, so monstrous … If turning myself in to the Gestapo now ensures you live, then it’s worth it. If I can satisfy them – that Faber is dead, that Stahl was killed, that I can offer something more to them or simply let them satisfy themselves with my execution – then that will be good enough. You are my daughter, Marienne. I need you to survive. I need you to remain in this world.’

‘Don’t go.’

‘It’s the only way.’

She held him so tight that he felt as though she was trying to pull him into her. He wept as she did this. Her face was trembling but resolute. He kissed her and held her again before he finally turned to leave.

Outside, as he reached the car, he knew she would be watching him from the window. But he couldn’t look again. If he did, his resolve would surely break.

He drove against the curfew, across the Seine and down to Rue des Saussaies. His was the only car on the road; the streets were empty, those Elysium fields spread into the world of the living now, ready for his arrival.

He parked the car outside the terraced apartment building. It was dark, but then so were all its neighbours. He stepped out into the road, drew in three deep breaths and tried to steady his shaking hands. They only trembled more.

Go through the gate and up to the door. Make the journey short, say what he could, hope for it to be quick.

He raised the knocker on the dark-green door and let it fall back. He could hear the echo in the hallway beyond.

Nothing.

A few more seconds and he raised the knocker again.

This time, the door pushed open.

Papers lay strewn across the floor.

His heart beat faster as he stepped into the building. The hope that he’d pushed low inside him started to emerge. Hundreds and hundreds of pages, all typed in German, all stamped and signed, had been left behind.

Striding further into the building, he called out.

No reply came.

The Gestapo had left Paris.