by D A Kent
Sylvia frowned.
‘Don’t call it that. It was the first language I spoke.’
‘Sorry’ said Gunn. ‘Rude of me. How did that come about? Didn’t you tell me once you had French grandparents?’
She explained that her mother was indeed half French, which was how her father had got into the wine importing business. They had lived between England and France; something of a peripatetic existence. She had an older sister, Madeleine. When she wasn’t quite two years old, her mother had had an affair with one of their suppliers, who had a small cognac house in the Charente.
Gunn looked at her sharply. ‘Whereabouts?’ he asked.
‘I’m not sure; near Cognac itself, I believe. Why do you ask?’
‘Oh, I knew a girl called Madeleine from the Charente once, but I didn’t think…’ Gunn frowned. ‘Anyway, go on.’
‘My mother took Madeleine one day and just walked out. She would have taken me too, I suppose, but I had chickenpox. So I stayed with Daddy. He used to say I was the apple of his eye. I always thought it was a funny saying.’
‘But you were just a little scrap. I don’t understand how anyone could do that.’
Stories of abandonment always upset Gunn. His own childhood had been a happy one, with two parents who had loved him. Like Sylvia’s, it had come to an abrupt end with the death of his mother and being sent to school in England.
‘Well, I never saw either of them again,’ continued Sylvia. ‘I presume they stayed with this guy at his cognac house. Aunt Hortense never had anything to say about Mother; just a load of vitriol and venom. I don’t think they made it, I never heard. But I was so small, I never knew them anyway. Daddy had to keep running the business of course, and travelling, so he employed a German nanny, Jutta. She was the nearest thing I had to a mother, I suppose. That’s why I speak the lingo.’
‘What happened to Jutta?’ asked Gunn.
‘I’ve often wondered that. When Daddy decided to send me back to England to boarding school, she went back to Berlin. I think she married her childhood sweetheart. Goodness only knows what happened to them both. He probably had to go in the army and ended up on the eastern front. Jutta may have been killed in one of the raids. I think they lived quite centrally. We did write for a while, until the war started.’
They drove on, in companionable silence. Gunn pulled off the main road a few miles short of Troyes.
‘I’m bushed,’ he admitted. ‘Let’s get our heads down for a few hours. Nobody about.’
Gunn pulled the Simca in off the road, behind a screen of trees, just enough to make sure a casual glance would not pick them up and not far enough to get the car bogged down. He handed Sylvia the picnic rug from the boot, excused himself and went for a cigarette. The air was warm and heavy, so close he could almost wear it.
He drew heavily on his cigarette. He had picked up the habit as a boy when helping out at a racing stable, much to his mother’s irritation, although he had never been quite sure whether her irritation had been due to the habit or his working at a racing stable. Not quite the thing. He smiled to himself and stretched his limbs. The Simca may have been new but it was somewhat lacking in the comfort department. Le Puce’s weak spot was, and always had been, new cars although now it looked as though he had graduated from stealing them to buying them, more or less legally.
He made himself comfortable on the edge of the blanket and looked over at Sylvia, who was fast asleep. That one could kip for England, he thought. She looked incredibly peaceful. He tucked his jacket around her and eventually drifted off into an uneasy sleep of his own. His mind had centred on another hot summer’s night in France when he had slept under the stars with another girl beside him. Only now she had Sylvia’s face. Surely…
Gunn woke with a start. The birds were singing and it was getting light. He gently shook Sylvia awake.
‘Rise and shine, sweetheart. Time to get back on the road and find somewhere for a coffee and a wash and brush up? I’m going to have to get some more fags, too.’
Sylvia commented, as they drove along, on how lovely the area was, with the half-timbered houses. Gunn told her they were probably 15th century. Soon, they were in open countryside, driving through an avenue of poplar trees. It made her think about trips around the country with her father.
‘Of course, they were planted to allow Napoleon’s army to march in the shade,’ Gunn grinned. ‘Or so the story goes. There was a crueller version told by a Marine I once knew. Hard bastard. Loathed the Germans but really hated the French.’
‘That would have made things awkward’ Sylvia observed.
‘Well, not as far as he was concerned.’ Gunn shook his head. ‘He was itching for an excuse to kill a Frenchman. Finally did so in Syria. Several of them.’
‘Several?’
‘Well, they were only Vichy so I couldn’t give a damn’ remarked Gunn. ‘Funnily enough, I met one when I was in France in 44. Used to work for Vichy, and yet somehow got himself in with the Allies and the FFI. Came from the Charente, funnily enough. Amoral bastard. Profile like a Sphinx after a decent meal. He was trouble.’
‘Didn’t anybody investigate him?’
‘Oh, he investigated himself apparently.’ Gunn shrugged. ‘I love this country, but it drives me to drink sometimes.’
He paused and let the silence drift a moment before offering an observation.
‘Talking about amoral bastards, I reckon Le Puce would sell us out. What say we dump this car, somewhere between Dijon and Macon, borrow another car and leave this in payment?’
Sylvia’s mind was spinning. Her world of certainties was running away from her. Only a few days ago, she was in Tufnell Park, arguing with the stockbroker over use of the kitchen and bathroom, and flitting in and out of London’s archives and libraries and meetings with clients. Now she was in France, a country she had left as a child, on a mission she had thought she understood and which she knew was always going to be difficult, but which now seemed dark and dangerous. And she was on the way to Haifa with Gunn. She had told Edward that she would trust him with her life. She had no choice now. He seemed to know what he was doing but…
‘Want to take the wheel for a bit?’ he asked.
He watched her for a while as she drove, and then dropped into a deep sleep. This time, it was Sylvia’s turn to nudge him awake.
‘We’re in Dijon. And you were talking in your sleep.’
‘I deny it all’ Gunn rubbed his eyes and stretched his frame. ‘Shall we find somewhere to get something to eat, and maybe switch cars on the edge of town?
They parked outside a two table sports bar at the back of the cathedral and stopped in for breakfast and a spruce up. Smearing apricot jam on her bread, Sylvia observed;
‘We’re making good time.’
‘We are, but the car is beginning to get to me. Le Puce will sell us out, I’m sure. He has sharp ears. Word will filter through to him that we have something other people want.’
Chapter 7
Balancing uncomfortably over the hole in the ground in the WC at the back of the café, which was slippery and none too clean, Sylvia wondered how Gunn proposed to achieve the next stage of his plan. As if in answer, he appeared next to her with his razor as she brushed her teeth at the unisex sink and combed her hair. They shared a mirror.
‘Feels ages since I last had a shave,’ he commented. ‘Ready for our next little adventure? Just do exactly as I say, sweetheart, don’t worry. If we head out towards Longvic, that will get us on the right road.’
Gunn opened the driver’s door for her.
‘You can drive again for a while.’
Shutting the door on Sylvia, he looked up. The wind was shepherding some heavy clouds their way. It was going to be a hard rain falling. He flicked up the collar on his jacket out of instinct and got in the passenger seat.
‘Let’s go. And don’t spare any horses. It is going to chuck it down.’
Sure enough, just a few miles short of Beaune,
the rain began to spill. It was bouncing back up from the road, such was its velocity. Gunn peered through the windscreen, the valiant efforts of the windscreen wiper being in vain. ‘Charming.’
‘Should we stop or carry on?’ Sylvia bit her lip. She did normally enjoy driving (she had learned in the army) but the gear box was heavy and the tyres slick with rain.
‘Pull over here, on the left. I’ve just spotted a petrol stop. We can fill the spare jerry can up with petrol and wait for the weather gods to stop fooling with us.’
The petrol stop consisted of one pump and a tumble-down workshop leaning heavily in on a country cottage. ‘Le patron’ looked like Jean Gabin’s older, more fatigued cousin several times removed and with the addition of a moustache that would have seen service with Napoleon’s cavalry at Austerlitz. Gunn trotted over, shook the man by the hand and came back with something approaching a smile on his face and oil on his hand.
‘He doesn’t think it will last. He’s got a Citroen under wraps at the back. He would be prepared to do a deal.’
‘Worth a look?’
‘I reckon so.’ Gunn wiped his hand on the inside of his jacket pocket.
‘He wins, we win. Let’s give it a few minutes and then talk business.’
‘While you do that, I’ll go and ring Joan,’ said Sylvia. ‘I won’t tell her where we are, of course. But we do need to know what’s been going on in our absence.’
Sylvia shut herself into the telephone box and was soon through to one of the ‘demoiselles’ and then Joan. It was reassuring to hear Joan’s voice though not what she had to say. Joan explained that she was receiving some mysterious calls, where the person just hung up. Old Mr Cumberland had been on the telephone four times, she said, demanding to know where they were. Young Mr Cumberland had turned up at Clements, leaving a message that they should ring him straightaway. Otherwise, things were ticking over nicely. The Wembley firm had confirmed the appointment with several new instructions for a few weeks’ hence. A couple of other divorce cases had come in but they could wait until their return. Oh, and Cathy had left Cumberlands after the old man had been particularly ghastly once too often.
‘Don’t know how she stuck it out so long,’ observed Joan. ‘Listen, ducks, I know you can’t say much. But be careful. That old git, Cumberland seems to have a bit of a bee in his bonnet. I know Mr Gunn will take care of you but I worry about you both.’
Thoughtfully, Sylvia walked back across the road towards Gunn. It felt as if something had walked over her grave. She told him about Edward’s visit first.
‘Nice of him to care,’ commented Gunn.
‘His father is onto us though,’ she said. ‘He’s phoned the office four times.’
‘Bound to happen, I suppose.’ Gunn shrugged. ‘But we do have a head start and we are a little bit smarter than that old square head. You didn’t give Joan any inkling of our whereabouts?’
‘No.’ Sylvia shook her head. ‘I just said something vague about Switzerland.’
‘Good girl. Not a million miles from here, so quite plausible. And it ties in with the story we fed Meunier yesterday’ He looked at her. ‘You’re shivering. Come in out of the rain. I’ve had a look under the oilskins at the car. It’s a 1934 Citroen 7A. Front wheel drive, all steel body in great nick. Used to belong to the old man’s son but he was killed in 1943, trying to blow up the local telephone exchange. Not many klicks on the clock. I vote we turn the Simca over and get the Citroen plus a few francs and a tankful of gas.’
‘Just make sure it starts first, and that he hasn’t been keeping chickens in the back seat. And bring the rug and the Michelin guide.’
Gunn reappeared with the car a few minutes later.
‘Hop in! Bloody sight more comfortable, this car.’
‘You and your cars!’ Sylvia smiled. ‘Like being on a day out with Mr Toad.’
Having listened absently for a few minutes to a lecture on the virtues of the Citroen 7A, Sylvia began:
‘Gunn, I’ve got a bad feeling about this. Old Cumberland is in this up to his neck. The thing is, he has friends in very high places in the establishment so even if we gave the papers in to the authorities, it wouldn’t make the slightest difference. He’d wriggle out of it. And we would still be his targets because we know the truth. Probably just me, actually.’
‘Why do you think I’m so keen to get us to Israel?’ asked Gunn. ‘Quite apart from getting the will to Marguerite of course? They’ll know exactly what to do with the papers there, I can assure you. And why do you think he is just honing in on you? We haven’t had an awful lot to do with the repulsive old sod, have we? It’s mainly been Edward and Louis giving us our instructions on all the cases.’
Sylvia looked ashen.
‘Sylv, come on, spill the beans,’ he urged.
Sylvia explained that, when she was about sixteen and had lost her father, she and Aunt Hortense were summoned to a meeting at Queen Anne’s gate, to discuss her father’s will. Aunt Hortense had to go to the dentist urgently, so Sylvia ended up going to the appointment on her own. Cumberland had told her that her father’s estate was all tied up in trust for her until she reached the age of twenty five. No provision had been made for her mother, who had married the man from the cognac house, or for Madeleine.
‘Well, you know I was expelled from school at around that time. He started talking about that. He seemed outraged at me having gone off the rails. I’d always been scared of him. I’d seen the way he treated Edward.’
Gunn felt a momentary pang of sympathy for Edward, as he did for anyone who had an unhappy childhood. Overtaking a camionnette, he said gently:
‘Go on.’
‘He made a pass at me. You know, sexually. It was horrible. If Joan hadn’t rescued me, I don’t know what would have happened.’
It was Joan who had dried her tears and taken her round to Claridges, to wait with Alfred for Aunt Hortense.
‘And nothing did happen?’
‘No, but I was so terrified. I’ve never…you know, mentioned this to anyone. He would only have twisted it round so it looked as if it was my fault.’
‘Well, I’m not letting you out of my sight now. Thank God Joan came waddling to the rescue. If, once we are back in London, I find he hasn’t already been taken out, I will wring his frigging neck. Right. Let’s get on that boat as soon as we can. I think there might be a sailing later tomorrow which we could make. It’s going to be packed to the gunwales but let’s see if the Stavisky method can work its magic.’
They drove hard, stopping only for a coffee break or two and the occasional ‘pit stop.’ They ate sandwiches at the wheel. As they hit the road, south of Lyon, with Gunn grumbling under his breath about missing a meal there, the weather finally began to clear. They were on a decent stretch of road and the Citroen followed through on wheels. It had the instincts of a cat but more of a forgiving nature. Gunn was becoming rather fond of it.
‘Gunn,’ Sylvia suggested. ‘Why don’t I do a pretext call to George and see if I can put him right off the scent?’
‘Too risky,’ commented Gunn straightaway. ‘Words like ‘head’ and lion’s mouth’ spring to mind.’
‘Not if I do it in German. It’s just that today is his day for going to the office, taking out all the petty cash and then getting blotto at the Club. Anyway, they’ll have a new receptionist, and she won’t recognise my voice.’
‘Want to go through your cover with me? And your alter ego?’
They did this all the time back in London, joking about their alter egos, saying that the bunker was getting far too crowded and deciding which one would have to be killed off next. They would run through their pretexts together, suggesting small adjustments here and there. That was how they got their results. Gunn pulled up at the next telephone box. There was nobody about. Often, as in England, there were queues outside telephones.
‘Right, make yourself scarce, Gunn. You know I don’t like anyone listening when I am doing this.’ She add
ed: ‘Unless you want a slap.’
‘I’ll look forward to that.’ Gunn smiled, as he sat down outside for a stretch. Sylvia really was good at this, he thought; cool and unflustered. He liked watching her at work, although he wouldn’t want to get on the wrong side of her. It was remarkable how much she reminded him of someone, but with more sweetness and vulnerability. He sprang to his feet as she emerged, a triumphant smile on her face.
‘Hook, line and sinker,’ she said, as they pulled away.
In Queen Anne’s Gate, George’s spirits were considerably lifted. He hadn’t heard anything from his contacts about Gunn or Sylvia for a day or so, although he was confident they wouldn’t get far. That idiot Meunier was useless and he didn’t know what Edward was up to either, always hanging around. When the call had come through from Klara Schmidt, secretary to Mueller, with a strong Berlin accent (that man got through more secretaries than hot dinners, always had done, the old rogue), he had felt a palpable relief. He had some ‘assets’ being transferred from Cadiz later that evening, but he wanted confirmation about affairs in Rome and the safe house there, in the back streets near the Vatican. Mueller was meant to be looking after that side of things.
‘Klara’ had told him that the English assets had returned to Paris and were staying near the Eiffel Tower. They would be back in England, under ‘close supervision,’ in two days. Yes, all was well with ‘Operation Crown Jewels’ from his side, he told her. She in turn assured him that arrangements in Rome were secure and could be ‘activated’ at any time, should anyone need such assistance.
‘Fraulein Schmidt,’ he interrupted her. ‘Please make sure the female asset is brought straight to me in London. And pass on my thanks and regards to Herr Mueller.’
Wishing her a pleasant evening, he put the telephone down and allowed himself a delicious quarter of an hour, thinking about how much he would enjoy having some time alone with that little strumpet. From memory, she was more of an ice maiden than a strumpet, but he would soon sort that out. He walked along the corridor to see Louis, still deeply ensconced in his litigation, getting the discovery process done before the courts opened again. They walked downstairs together and parted company at the door, George to hail a cab and Louis to take a bus over to the Polish Officers’ Club.