The Girl in the Baker's Van

by Richard Savin

  Just after 7.30 that evening there was a knock on the bedroom door. Grainger got up from where he had been sitting at an escritoire and opened it. ‘There is food ready to eat,’ Paul said, looking over Grainger’s shoulder to where he could see the package lying on the small writing desk. ‘Have you worked out what it is?’

  Grainger shook his head. ‘Come in for a moment.’ He beckoned Paul over to where the package sat. There was the smell of warm wax in the air, as if a candle had been newly lit. ‘I’ve resealed it as best I can. With luck they won’t notice it’s been opened.’

  ‘Is that important? Do you not trust Father Guillaume and the Polish agent?’

  ‘I don’t know who I can trust, so it’s best to trust no one. Besides, it might not be good for the girl if they think she knows their secret, whatever it is.’

  Paul thought on that for a moment. ‘Do you know what it is?

  ‘It’s a location map – that much is obvious – and the drawing of the building is probably some kind of identifying landmark. As for the key, who knows? Maybe it’s the key to the building? No idea really – all just guesswork.’ He picked up the package. ‘I need to get this back to them. It’s clear they won’t move out of the city until they have it, and I have a job to do. I have to get him down south and hand him over to his American contact. I don’t like hanging around one place for too long, it’s dangerous. The longer I stand still the more chance there is of being uncovered.’

  Over dinner they discussed what was to be done with the package. ‘I think I should return it to them tomorrow,’ Grainger said.

  Paul looked doubtful. ‘You shouldn’t go, it’s too risky. If you get stopped and there is the slightest suspicion over your papers we could lose everything. It’s better if I go. I’ll do it first thing tomorrow after breakfast. Also there is something worrying me that I need to ask Father Guillaume.’

  ‘What will you tell them if they ask how you came by it? They’re bound to ask.’

  ‘I’ve already thought of that. I’ll say Mathieu saw her at Perrache. She was taking a train – going back to her home in Alsace – and she gave it to him.’

  ‘Will they believe it?’

  Paul shrugged. ‘Do you have another idea?’

  Grainger admitted he didn’t. ‘Well, good luck,’ he said, ‘and be careful. I’m not sure how they’ll react once they’ve got what they want.’

  ‘Oh, don’t worry. Father Guillaume is okay. He knows my father; they are friends.’ He paused for a moment as if he had just remembered something. ‘There is one thing.’ His voice tailed off in uncertainty.

  Grainger waited. ‘That is?’

  Paul shook his head. ‘Nothing – it’s not important - it’s a personal matter I need to discuss with the Father.

  *

  On the following morning, as Schreiber emerged from the lift and made his way to the dining room, he was ready for his breakfast; he was hungry. He had slept well and woken early. He had reviewed the evidence and thought he was beginning to understand the case, though there were still gaps. Crossing the reception hall he became aware of the concierge, who raised his hand and came over to him. ‘Ah,’ he gave a small sigh as if he were relieved to see Schreiber. ‘There is another call for you, monsieur,’ he said deferentially. ‘If you would please go to cabin number two the operator will connect you.’ Schreiber anticipated news from Duval; maybe the net had caught some fish. Instead it was the voice of Peter Becker that wished him ‘Guten morgen.’

  ‘Ludwig Kraus was under investigation by the Abwehr.’

  Schreiber said nothing for a few seconds. Here was yet another twist he hadn’t seen coming. ‘Was he now? How interesting – go on.’

  ‘They were suspicious he might have been subverted, so he was under surveillance. They think he was planning to go over to the Americans. They think Kasha was the courier.’

  ‘Kraus was in this with the Pole?’

  ‘He could have been feeding Kasha with valuable intelligence to buy his ticket out of Germany. That’s what they think.’

  ‘Does the Abwehr know what he was taking to the Americans?’

  ‘Yes, but they are not saying; just that it is highly sensitive and would be damaging to Germany if the other side were to get it. Only that.’

  ‘And Kandler – any more on him?’

  ‘Nothing just now Kriminalinspector but I am still investigating.’

  This new information was awkward. If Kraus was in this thing with Kasha why would Kasha kill him? That was another theory assigned to the trash can. Nothing was making sense, and it ruined his breakfast.

  CHAPTER 15

  Roads south

  When Grainger came out of his room and into the corridor, there on the landing he came across Evangeline; she was standing just by the top of the stairs. They exchanged the obligatory morning greeting and went down together. An attractive girl, he thought to himself as they descended the flight; for a moment he wondered how she had become mixed up in the mess that now surrounded her. Then he found himself saying under his breath, ‘Mind you, it has nothing to do with how she looks.’ Inside he had seen shades of what he took to be a tough, determined character. When they got to the dining room Mathieu announced that Paul had left earlier and they should wait for his return before deciding what to do next.

  ‘Where in Alsace is your home?’ Grainger asked over coffee, trying to make some kind of small talk.

  She shook her head. ‘It’s not good to talk about these things,’ was all he got out of her.

  ‘Evangeline is right,’ Mathieu agreed.

  ‘Tell no one anything they don’t need to know. It’s dangerous to say too much.’ He looked down at the watch on his wrist. ‘It’s gone nine – he should be back by now.’

  ‘What time did he leave?’

  ‘Around half six, before it was getting light. It’s the time when men are going to work at the factories. It’s safer to move with the crowd; nobody notices. He took his bicycle.’

  *

  As he followed the edge of the river, anonymous in the tide of cyclists that thronged the embankment, Paul saw the gendarmes; there were about a dozen of them staked out on both sides of the first bridge he came to. It was clear they were examining the vehicles and the pedestrians as they passed over it but hidden in the anonymity of the crowd he went by unchallenged. He pedalled down towards Perrache, turning away to the left a short distance before he got there, keeping off the main avenues and riding through the narrow side streets that criss-crossed the city. When he arrived at the church of Saint-Sacrement the front door was firmly shut and bolted; the little wicket door too was locked. He propped the bike against the wall and went round the side of the church where he knocked on the door to the sacristy. By now it should have been light but a thick blanket of low grey cloud hung across the city, blocking out the winter sun; the air was damp and cold, and a gloomy shroud cast itself across the street and the buildings. After a moment there was the sound of a key in the lock, then he saw the handle turn.

  *

  Evangeline finished her coffee, offered a polite excuse, then got up and left the table. In her room she sat on the edge of the bed, her hands nervously smoothing out her dress where it hung across her knees. Next to her was a wad of money – the Swiss francs and the Reich marks she had taken from the package. She should have told the others; it should have been put back together with the francs she had already spent. She could tell them now, but what difference would that make? Paul had already taken the package. Telling them now would be pointless; she would wait until his return and make a decision then. She let go the thought and instead turned her mind to leaving the city. She had begun to wonder how they would manage it with so many gendarmes out there; if they were looking for Kasha she was sure they would be looking for her as well.

  There had been no sign of Paul all morning. In the salon the musical chimes of the mantle clock sounded the midday hour and still there was no sign of him. He had been gone nearly six
hours and the passing of each further minute stirred new fears that something had gone wrong. The day slipped away into the afternoon and, as the light began to fade, so their hopes went with it. When the high-pitched ting of the chimes sounded four they decided they could wait no longer.

  ‘I will go to Saint-Sacrement to find out,’ Mathieu said quietly.

  ‘You shouldn’t go alone, I’ll come with you. Wait here for a moment.’ Grainger climbed the stairs and went into his room. In the small canvas bag he used to carry his simple belongings there was a .38 automatic pistol. He took it out, checked the ammunition clip was full and slipped it into his jacket pocket.

  ‘We can’t take the car,’ Mathieu said. ‘They could be looking for it by now.’

  ‘How would they know?’

  Mathieu made a little gesture with his hands and shook his head. ‘Things get out, people talk, better not to run the risk. If you’re stopped in a car you’re trapped; it’s difficult to make a run for it. What about Evangeline?’

  ‘She ought to stay here – no point in her taking chances; besides she would only get in the way – there’s nothing she could do to help. I’ll go up and let her know.’

  They waited until almost six o’clock before they left so that, like Paul in the morning, they could use the cover, this time of home-going workers, to avoid the gendarmes. Leaving the house they walked the distance to the end of the Boulevard des Belges where they found a bus heading for the 2nd arrondissement. At La Part-Dieu they got off and walked the back streets until they came to the church. Grainger put out a hand signalling they should stop. Under the dull yellow glow of a street lamp they could just make out the front of the church.

  ‘Look,’ Mathieu said in a low voice. ‘That is Paul’s bike. He must still be here.’

  Grainger took the gun from his jacket and pulled on the slide, then eased it back gently and silently until he felt and heard the barely perceptible click of a round load into the breech. He put a finger up to his lips, then with a nod in the direction of the door made his way towards it. He pushed on it – it was locked.

  ‘We should try the sacristy,’ Mathieu said, keeping his voice down to not much more than a whisper; but when they got to it that was also locked. ‘I’m very worried. Paul would not just abandon his bike. Something is wrong; I know something is wrong.’

  Grainger knocked on the door, waited, then knocked again. There was no response; he pounded on it with his fist. The sound echoed back at them but nobody came. He looked at his watch and after a pause said, ‘what time is the evening Mass?’

  ‘Seven.’

  ‘Who conducts it?’

  ‘Father Guillaume, of course – who else?’

  Grainger looked back at his watch. ‘Twenty to,’ he looked up and down the street. ‘People will be arriving soon; he will have to come. We should wait.’

  They stood in the shadow of a stone buttress from where they could see the street. It could not be long before the faithful would begin to turn up expecting a service of worship. Someone would have to be there, to attend to their needs and conduct the Mass.

  ‘Listen,’ Grainger held up a hand. ‘Someone’s coming.’ There was the sound of footsteps from further up the street, beyond the pool of light shed by the street lamp, still hidden in the dark but heading towards the church – the steady click, click of well-shod heels hitting the pavement. A figure emerged from the veil of dark and came into view; it was not the priest. Instead it was a short, portly man who hurried to the door of the sacristy. He fumbled with some keys for a moment, bent over the lock trying to get one to fit. They heard the creak as the door opened and watched as the figure disappeared across the threshold. Then they moved. Grainger pushed the door open and, stepping into the light of the room, came face to face with the man who was now busy setting out some papers on the table. The man looked up calmly as if he was expecting a visitor but when, out of the corner of his vision, he saw Grainger and then Mathieu he stopped what he was doing and turned to face them.

  ‘Mathieu?’ The voice betrayed a mild surprise and he stood there for a moment, looking from one to the other as if expecting some kind of explanation for the intrusion.

  ‘Monsieur Eric,’ Mathieu shot a glance at Grainger. ‘This is Monsieur Clement, the choirmaster.’

  The man instinctively put out a hand saying, ‘Monsieur,’ as he did so; Grainger shook the hand that had been offered but avoided saying anything more than ‘Bonsoir’ for fear of giving away that he was English. He had no idea who this was beyond the introduction Mathieu had just given him. He would let Mathieu do the talking for the moment.

  ‘We are looking for Paul. Have you seen him? He came here this morning and his bicycle is still out there, at the front of the church.’

  Monsieur Clement shook his head. It was clear from the look on his face he had no knowledge of Paul’s visit.

  ‘Where is Father Guillaume?’

  The choirmaster shook his head, at the same time looking at his watch. ‘He should be here by now; I don’t know. He is not normally late.’ A look of concern spread across his face. ‘I have to unlock the front of the church; the congregation will start arriving shortly.’

  He excused himself and went through to the apse, his progress marked by the echoes of his leather shoes on the stone floor. There was a sound behind them and the door opened. ‘Father Guillaume,’ Mathieu said, expecting to see the priest, but it was another. The man greeted them, not questioning their presence, and went directly up the stone stairs that led to the private chapel and the belfry beyond. Mathieu looked disappointed. ‘He’s the bell ringer – here to toll the Angelus.’

  The church was beginning to fill. The muted voices of the congregation permeated through to where they waited, but there was still no sign of Father Guillaume. The door opened again and this time a small group of choirboys entered, chattering and shuffling their feet noisily. Monsieur Clement came back and, raising his finger to his lips, shushed an admonishment at them, reminding them they were in the house of the Lord and telling them to hurry as they started to throw on cassocks and surplices. The bell had begun to ring the Angelus – and still no sign of the priest. Once more the door opened; Mathieu again recognised the new addition to the crowd that was now swelling and filling the building. ‘Monsieur Menton!’ Mathieu looked agitated. The new arrival was the curate; he assisted the priest and sometimes stood in for him when he was away from the diocese or ill. ‘Where is Father Guillaume?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ The curate looked irritated. He opened a cupboard and took out his vestments, ignoring them as he shrugged his way into them. ‘I got a note less than half an hour ago asking me to come here and conduct the Mass – but there was no explanation.’ He made no further comment; he left the room through the arched doorway that led to the apse and disappeared behind the screen which obscured the sacristy from the congregation. The air was silent, punctuated only by the hollow noise of sporadic coughs as the worshippers waited in expectation. Then the voice of the curate, clear and resonant, chanting the litany in Latin, pierced the air; the faithful obediently responded in a profound Gregorian drone.

  This was getting them nowhere and time was running away. There was nothing for it

  but to wait it out until the Mass had finished. Then they would be able to question the curate; he out of all of them should know how to find Father Guillaume.

  They sat at the table in the sacristy without speaking. It must have been halfway through the service when the door to the street opened and Father Guillaume stepped through. He had a worried scowl on his face as he recognised the two of them, but when he spoke his voice was apologetic and it carried a hint of anguish. He looked from one to the other, then put a hand on Mathieu’s shoulder like one about to impart bad news. ‘We have a problem – and it’s grave.’ The anguish in his voice gave way to a more sonorous, sober tone. ‘Paul has been taken by the Pole, Kasha. There was an argument over the girl, Evangeline. It seems she had opened the pa
ckage. There was a lot of money inside – nearly five thousand Swiss francs and more. He accused her of stealing it; he believed Paul was hiding her. He had a gun.’

  ‘Where are they now?’ Grainger butted in.

  ‘I don’t know. He left, I tried to stop him but as I have said he was armed. The girl – Cigale – she was with him. I think she gave him the gun.’

  Mathieu had gone pale but his voice remained steady. ‘What do we do now? Should we report it to the gendarmerie? What do we do?’

  ‘Forget the gendarmerie,’ Grainger was adamant, ‘it would blow us wide open. We have to do this ourselves.’

  ‘We do,’ Father Guillaume agreed, ‘and it won’t be easy.’

  For a short while nobody said anything; they simply looked at one another waiting for suggestions, hoping for answers – but there were none. Father Guillaume exhaled heavily at the same time shaking his head. ‘Do either of you know where the girl is? Was Paul hiding her?’ He looked directly into Mathieu’s eyes; the boy dropped his gaze and stared down at his knees, but said nothing.

  ‘She’s back at the house in Boulevard des Belges,’ Grainger said. He figured there was no point in keeping it quiet any longer.

  ‘Then we have to move you, all of you, to a safer place till I can find them and solve this problem.’

  Grainger nodded his agreement. ‘We’re in your hands, Father. What do you want us to do?’

  ‘Go back to the house; get anything you need to take with you and be ready to move as soon as I come for you. I’ll try to find them. If I can find Cigale I’ll find him – I need to talk some sense into him.’

  As they made their way back to the house Grainger struggled to get a handle on what had happened. What the hell was Kasha up to? He was putting the whole operation in jeopardy, and for what – a handful of cash? It didn’t add up. The Americans, he knew, were offering him safe passage to the States in return for the secret he was carrying; that was bound to include money for a new life, so why throw it away? The man must have flipped.