by D A Kent
His expressions amused Sylvia. They were starting to creep into her vocabulary too. She would have to be careful not to try them out in the wrong company. Gunn had acquired a taste for English tea over the years and the Tea Caddy had always been a favourite haunt of his.
‘Came here with Dad’ he remarked. ‘Just before I came over to England for school.’ He never talked about his family much, thought Sylvia, although she had spoken to his father a few times on the telephone. This turned out to be another of his non-sequiturs.
She changed the subject.
‘I love the china. Aunt Hortense used to have Willow Pattern.’
After a light lunch, they ordered another pot of tea and began to sift through the photographs. There were the usual wedding pictures and ones of the couple as they got older at the house. Some of the photos were from an earlier date and of a more private nature; there were several of Louise at Deauville in a bathing costume and, similarly attired but in soft focus, by the lake at the demeure. Others showed her with someone who looked very like her, endorsed ‘Louise and Marguerite at La Demeure’ on the back.
‘He must have really loved her,’ said Sylvia.
‘That definitely comes through in the photography’ Gunn agreed. ‘How awful.’
They sat in silence for a moment, drinking their tea.
‘Shall we have a look at these papers then?’ suggested Gunn. ‘Quite a few of them, aren’t there?’
He began leafing through some letters. They were in German, but he could make out a few familiar names.
‘Sylv, you speak German. Take a look at all these while I pop out for a newspaper, then we’ll have a look at the rest together. I need to get some fags too. There’s a tabac just the other side of Shakespeare and Co. Shan’t be a minute.’
Sylvia started to read the letters. A large batch were from Mr. Jones’s sister-in-law, a personal assistant to a high ranking official in Berlin, who was protecting her Jewish roots in return for favours. That much was clear. What was also clear was that Marta Vogel (not the other girl in the photographs then, thought Sylvia) had been sending letters and documents which she had copied to her sister in the period up to around 1939. Sylvia guessed it was a kind of insurance, though not one that had done Louise much good. Maybe not Marta either.
Gunn returned, a copy of Le Figaro in his hand. He skimmed through the report on yesterday’s athletic events at the Olympics, and an article on the Berlin blockade. His attention was drawn to a piece below on the acquittal of one Friedrich Otto Heinz Mueller in some ‘épuration’ proceedings in Berlin. He remembered that the French didn’t refer to this process as ‘denazification.’ Mueller had been on the General Staff and had also spent time in France, near Melun, before being recalled to Germany. It was a very short article, as they tended to be. Other priorities were taking over. The world was changing.
‘Friedrich Otto Heinz Mueller,’ he reflected aloud. ‘One lucky bastard, by the sounds of it.’
Sylvia looked up sharply.
‘What about him? Marta was working for him in Berlin before the war. Louise’s sister. I reckon they were having an affair. Look at this.’
She showed Gunn a picture of a beautiful woman, immaculately dressed, with the address of a Berlin photographic studio stamped on the back, and the handwritten phrase; ‘Mein Liebling.’
Gunn raised an eyebrow in enquiry as Sylvia carried on. ‘Judging by these letters, and I’ve just had a quick scan so far, Mueller was setting frameworks in place to allow senior Germans to escape Europe and into the wide blue. I mean, I’d heard of this being done, but Mueller was clearly way ahead of his time.’
‘Any other names in there?’
‘Plenty. And I would wager a shilling or two that most of them have since been cleared by tribunals. Otto Neumann, now he was sentenced in absentia. I remember typing that up. He was in charge of one of the death camps. Said he would survey the camp and could see nothing but rotting flesh. That was how he perceived his prisoners. And Wilhelm Beck too, his henchman. From what I can remember, they were picked up, let go and then disappeared. God. This is amazing stuff.’
‘Reckon people were after these letters?’
‘Almost certainly.’ Sylvia narrowed her gaze. ‘Why else kill an old man? Gunn, what have we got ourselves into?’
They turned their attention to the will, their heads close together, totally absorbed. It was short, type-written and relatively simple, signed by two witnesses – French names, probably neighbours. It followed the format Sylvia recognised instantly from her days with the solicitors.
‘I, Jonathan Theophilus Weston Jones, being of sound mind and testamentary capacity, hereby revoke all other wills, codicils and other testamentary dispositions.
Following the deportation in 1942 of my dear wife, Louise Vogel, I leave my estate in its entirety to my sister-in-law, Marguerite Cecilia Werner, formerly Vogel, now believed to be in Haifa.’
A ‘care of’ address was given for an Aaron Vogel in Haifa. The will went on to stipulate that all papers in his possession should be given to Mrs. Werner.
‘Well, you could see from the photos that she was close to Marguerite,’ said Sylvia. ‘I only found the one picture of Marta. I don’t understand this. Why didn’t he leave his will for Cumberlands to sort out? Could he not have given it and the papers to them, instead of hiding them in a wall? Or do you think that was what he was planning to do?’
‘Wait. What’s this?’
Gunn drew out from the bundle a scrap of paper, on which, in a shaky hand, was written ‘Mannfred Brand’ and ‘Lothar Kaltenbrunner,’ next to it. In another column, the name ‘George Cumberland’ was underlined several times.
‘George Cumberland’ exclaimed Gunn. ‘Isn’t that Edward’s father? Did you know he was German?’
‘Oh, I always knew that. He’s been in England for ages. I didn’t know what his name was before though. Edward’s mother is English. As a family, they were always more English than the English. I think he was educated over here and then went to Cambridge. I do remember something of a kerfuffle when he was picked up and taken to the Isle of Man; it took them a while to catch with him. Kicking and screaming, no doubt. That wasn’t long after he…’
Sylvia stopped, and looked embarrassed. After a second, she added:
‘They soon let him go. Probably couldn’t abide him in the camp a moment longer.’
‘Huh,’ Gunn sipped at his cooling tea. It went down well. ‘I would have left him on the Isle of Man or made him swim. Reckon he has such sympathies?’
‘Quite possibly.’ Sylvia turned the question over in her mind. ‘After all, with a son as a Spitfire pilot, he would be hidden in plain sight.’
‘Of course, and let’s be clear. Edward, for all his skills as a pilot, isn’t the sharpest tool in the box.’ Gunn set his cup down. ‘Not being too harsh, but I wonder whether he was given his current position.’
‘He was.’ Sylvia shuffled uncomfortably. She had a concern for Edward, nothing more. He was upright and basically decent. In some very dark hours at school, she had looked forward to his letters. ‘So, let’s accept George is a sympathiser and part of this network or framework of Mueller’s. What do we do? We can’t give the papers to Edward now. His father would get them off him straightaway. I know what he’s like.’
‘I wonder if we’ve been set up? These papers are dynamite. Presumably, that’s why we’ve had these goons following us.’ Gunn paused, and looked at Sylvia. ‘I think we should get down to Haifa pdq, find the family and hand them over.’
Sylvia thought for a moment.
‘Won’t we have to report in, though? It’ll look funny if we don’t. I mean presumably there is some sort of murder investigation going on in Chartrettes now. Whoever is on the trail will soon get wind of that. Should we go and see Meunier now and get some money from him, just to make an appearance?’
Gunn shook his head.
‘Absolutely not, Sylv, they could be waiting for us at
his office. We’d be walking straight into a trap. We need to get out of here. It could turn nasty. In fact, I’m not sure if you shouldn’t go back to London, give Edward some cock and bull story to fend him off, keep him off our backs, and just carry on as usual. I’d rather you were safe. I mean, I’ve done this type of thing over here, and with the greatest respect…’
‘I’m not leaving you,’ she said firmly.
‘I don’t know, Sylv.’ He sighed, and took her hand in his. ‘All right, here’s what we do. We’ll get ourselves some wheels, drive down to Marseille, then get the boat to Haifa. That in itself could be tricky. You know what the situation is over there. Don’t worry about money. I’ll get us some. Before we go though, we’ll telegraph Meunier, say we are going to Switzerland and will be in touch on our return. Then, if Cumberland does send any of his goons after us, they will be going in totally the wrong direction.’
Sylvia put the papers and photos carefully back into her handbag, and they settled up with la patronne, before heading to the PTT to send the telegraph. At the hotel, which they now affectionately called ‘the fleapit,’ they told Madame they were off to the country for a while and paid her to keep the room for them. Gunn told Sylvia in no uncertain terms to pack lightly. This was no sodding picnic. They would need to keep their wits about them. They would catch some sleep wherever they could, but they needed to leave Paris now and keep moving as fast as possible.
‘You finish packing and I’ll go and organise some money and a car,’ Gunn spoke over his shoulder as he left. ‘I have a few old friends who can help or will help. I will insist.’
Chapter 6
Gunn prowled through Paris as if it were his personal domain. In a way, it was. As a boy, his father had given him a Metro ticket every Saturday and told him to choose a different ligne and navigate his way back on foot. The city had put its memory into his bones that way. It had been useful in ’43 and ’44, and got him out of more scrapes than a ship in dry dock. He strode down the Rue du Roi de Sicile, ducked down a courtyard and crossed over a back gate into the Rue de Sevigne, took a right down the Rue de Jarente without a pause and then another right into the Rue Necker. He knocked on a large wooden door. A concierge let him in at the passing of a folded note and he headed across the courtyard and up a flight of old stone steps around a galleried landing to Apt 6. He rapped smartly three times in staggered cadence. The door opened and a familiar looking face opened the door halfway, puzzled. Gunn pushed his way in.
‘Salut, mon vieux. Been a while.’
Alex Le Puce smiled. ‘Four years?’
‘Four years and I have some business for you.’
At the word business, Le Puce grinned and welcomed Gunn in. ‘Some good business, I trust?’
‘Really good.’ Gunn was not in the mood to muck about. He fiddled with his jacket cuff and tugged at a thread while Le Puce poured them a cognac each. The seam split and Gunn allowed three slim gold plaques to slip out and into his hand. ‘This kind of business.’
Alex grinned, and handed Gunn a glass. ‘The kind of business I like. I think I can help.’
‘Yes, you can.’
Gunn’s gaze was steady as Le Puce screwed a jeweller’s eye glass into his good right eye, his left being a rosette of puckered flesh from a beating too far at the boxing booths of Menilmontant in 1937. He had not been a bare knuckle fighter, but a bookie’s runner. He had tried to rip the bookie off and taken a pounding for his presumption.
Le Puce inspected the gold plaques and let the eye glass drop into the palm of his right hand. He set it on the table and looked at Gunn.
‘Good stuff,’ he observed. ‘The Stavisky method never gets old. For these three plaques I can offer you $250. Allows me a bit off the top.’
‘A bit?’ Gunn mused. He would argue for sake of form and appearance, but felt reasonably comfortable, with another five plaques sewn into his collar and waistcoat. ‘Not good enough.’
‘What can I say? It is the market.’
‘Your innocence would win you a Cesar and a night with Arletty.’
‘Ha, well, her cunt is international, or so she said, and I am a Pole.’
‘No, you are not. Your mother was a Pole and your father was a poilu and you were born three streets back. And you can still do better.’
‘Oh, you are not a reasonable man.’
Le Puce grimaced and poured them both another drink. Gunn raised his glass and they clinked rims. Gunn observed:
‘No, and I never claimed to be.’
‘Putain.’
‘Of course.’ Gunn’s tone became brisk. ‘So, you can do better, and by better I mean $250 and that new Simca 8 of yours in the courtyard.’
He raised a hand to stifle a protest. ‘No, that car is for hire and your friend and mine, Jacques Berger, can pick it up and bring it back. I will leave 100 francs under a condom in the petrol cap.’
‘How will Jacques know where to pick it up?’
‘Well, give me your telephone number and I will call you and tell you where I have left it and Jacques can pick it up.’
Gunn knew he had won.
‘Deal?’
‘Deal.’ Le Puce stood up.
‘When do you want the money and the car?’
‘Now?’ Le Puce shrugged. ‘Impossible.’
‘Quite possible.’ Gunn stood up. ‘I am lacking patience today.’
Le Puce knew better than to argue with Gunn when he adopted that tone. He remembered it of old. He sighed, went and got the money and then, rather reluctantly, handed over the keys to his pride and joy.
Twenty minutes later, Gunn drew up outside the hotel. Sylvia had just come downstairs with one large canvas holdall and another smaller one.
‘That’s my girl.’ he said, getting out to open the door. ‘On y va.’
It was getting quite dark now. As Gunn negotiated the narrow streets, heading south, he stole the odd glance at Sylvia, lost in thought beside him.
‘It’s been quite a day, hasn’t it? Finding Jones like that. I mean, despite everything we went through for all those years, it came as a shock. Almost felt we knew him, too. You must be exhausted. I suggest we get out of Paris and as far south as possible tonight. Then we’ll find somewhere for some shut-eye, off the beaten track; we’ll camp out. Good thing it’s quite warm.’
‘Camping? Have you got a tent in the back?’ Sylvia asked, absently.
‘No buggering tent.’ Gunn was amused. ‘What do you think I am, a frigging Boy Scout? We need to keep mobile. I think there’s a rug or something though.’
She was wearing a black cardigan with lots of little buttons of different colours; very demure. He realized they looked exactly like the cover story they had given to the gendarmes and which they were going to stick to now; a former British officer with his fiancée, touring round France.
At Queen Anne’s Gate, George Cumberland slammed the telephone down on Meunier abruptly.
‘Switzerland,’ he snorted derisively. ‘A likely story!’
He had called in at the office on his way to the club, to pick up some petty cash. He had been only too pleased to take the call which Cathy had put through to him. Cathy, with the attention span of a goldfish, had completely forgotten that calls from Meunier were meant for Young Mr Cumberland and him alone. Edward was out doing a completion in Fleet Street. That, George thought, would keep the stupid boy out of mischief for a while. Serve him bloody well right in this weather. Young whippersnapper was becoming quite defiant.
‘No,’ he shouted, as Cathy appeared with a weak cup of tea, just before she left for the evening. One thing Joan (that fat old mare) used to have in her favour was that she made a decent cup of tea. That was all. Cathy was useless. Not even attractive either.
‘Take it away’ he almost screamed. ‘Get out.’
He noted what Meunier had said about Jones’s death having been reported to the gendarmerie by an English officer and his fiancée. That would be all over the newspapers soon, in France as
well as here. They needed tracking down soon. One thing was for sure, they wouldn’t get very much further, even with all the money his idiot son had given them. That should make things simple. He wagered they would soon be back in London. Better make a call just in case, and get a watch put on the railway stations. It would be useful to know when to expect them. He could hear Louis in the conference room, down the corridor, working on some litigation. Closing the heavy door to his office as a precaution, he lifted the receiver and spoke in low tones:
‘Hier ist Mannfred Brand am Apparat.’
Sylvia and Gunn had got out of Paris just in time. The Simca 8 had already cleared the banlieue and was on the Route Nationale. They stopped at the first petrol station they came to, for some food supplies, some water and a coffee each. They also picked up a Michelin Guide, as Sylvia had left the Baedeker back at the fleapit. Gunn thought it was probably out of date anyway.
‘It’s getting quite late’ he commented. ‘I wouldn’t mind getting past Troyes and then we’ll stop for a kip. You forget how big the distances are here, don’t you?’
As they drove through the darkness, they talked again about the papers they had found at Chartrettes. In the folder with the photographs, Sylvia had found another compartment containing love letters between Louise and Jonathan. The paper was thin and delicate, and the writing very close.
‘It feels almost as if we are intruding, looking at these,’ she commented, ‘But we’ll have to, won’t we, to get the full picture. And then there’s this German network. I guess the papers will explain old Cumberland’s involvement. There’s obviously something in it. I genuinely don’t think Edward knows.’
‘We’ll go through it all properly on the boat. You can sift through all the German and talk me through it, and we’ll put it all together in a report. And I might just see if I can get a message to this Aaron Vogel cove in Haifa. By the way, I never asked you. How did you learn that infernal, buggering language?’