The Girl in the Baker's Van

by Richard Savin

  When they arrived back at the house there was no sign of Evangeline. At first they shouted, and looked in the salon and the dining room. Grainger went to her bedroom, but it was empty. He opened the doors on the tall wooden wardrobe – there was nothing in it. On the dressing table he saw there was a note. ‘She’s gone!’ he shouted down the stairs.

  ‘She left this,’ he said, holding up a folded sheet of paper. ‘It’s a note apologising for the problems she has caused. She says she’ll make her own way from here.’ He let out a noisy sigh of exasperation. ‘We could do without this; if she gets herself caught we’re all in shit up to our ears.’

  *

  Evangeline had made it to the Perrache terminus without problems; she had walked right under the noses of the gendarmes as she crossed the bridge to get to the station and had not been challenged. It ran through her mind that if they were looking for her they were making a bad job of it, though she concluded it was more likely that they were not in fact looking for her at all. There was no reason to suppose that anyone other than Kasha, the priest and the boys knew she was in Lyon. All she had to do now was buy a ticket to Narbonne where she was sure she would be able to find someone to get her across the Pyrenees into Spain. Once there, she had enough money to be comfortable and stay out of trouble; she could buy a new identity. She would be free.

  The clerk in the ticket office got difficult when she tried to pay with Reich marks; her French francs were nearly all gone. ‘There is a bureau de change over there,’ he directed her, pointing across to the far side of the station concourse. She tried to argue but he wasn’t having it and the people in the queue behind her were starting to grumble. There was nothing for it; she would have to go and change the money. The teller in the bureau de change, a fresh faced young man, looked at the German money. ‘I need to see some identity document,’ he said politely. ‘Please let me see your ration card, mademoiselle.’ She handed him the document and waited while he scrutinised it. ‘You are from Alsace.’ It was a statement not a question. She nodded nervously. ‘Damn,’ she thought, and hoped he was not going to be difficult.

  ‘Ah,’ he smiled, ‘of course, that is why you have Reich marks, and I suppose you must use both currencies being so close to Germany.’

  ‘Yes,’ she replied as a small wave of relief welled up inside her. The exchange rate was not a good one; banks are thieves, she told herself, but she didn’t care; she had enough francs to see her clear of France and that was all she wanted. Back at the ticket office she was greeted with a condescending smile by the clerk who had sent her to the bureau de change. The next train was not for another hour so there was time for a short lunch. In the restaurant she started to gather her thoughts. It had been easier than she had imagined; her luck seemed to be holding up. She finished her lunch, paid the bill and went to the ladies room where she tidied her hair and freshened her make-up. She left the restaurant in high spirits; now she would take her train south. She reached the gates to the quai where the Montpellier express was waiting to depart.

  There was a man talking to the ticket inspector just by the barrier. At first she thought she knew him; the face was familiar but she couldn’t quite place it. Then she realised it was the teller from the bureau de change. He saw her and waved, then smiling came towards her.

  ‘What the hell does he want?’

  ‘Excuse me, mademoiselle.’ The voice was so close to her it made her jump. She turned to see a gendarme.

  ‘This is the woman, the one who changed the Reich marks.’ The young teller now looked serious, all traces of the smile had gone. ‘She seemed very suspicious to me.’

  Her heart sank as she stood still wondering whether to make a break for it, but another gendarme appeared at the barrier and when they asked to see her papers she knew it was over; her luck had finally run out.

  *

  There was the sound of someone banging on the front gate, then the clanking of the bell that hung above it. A man’s voice was calling to be let in.

  ‘It’s the gendarmes,’ Mathieu said frantically. ‘You have to hide. Stay out of the way till I find out what they want. Go right to the top of the house. There is an attic. It’s crammed with old furniture. Get right to the back and stay quiet.’

  Crouching at the back of the attic, Grainger heard the noise of approaching footsteps. It had been barely ten minutes since he had hidden there, it must mean trouble; he braced himself as his hand gripped the butt of the .38.

  The door opened; it was Mathieu. ‘It’s okay, you can come out. They’ve gone.’

  Grainger crawled out from behind some packing cases where he had hidden. ‘Who were they, what did they want?’

  ‘Gendarmes,’ he said in a voice that was flat and muted. ‘Paul is dead. They found his body in the Saône – he’s dead.’ He turned his back on Grainger and started back down the stairs. A few steps before the bottom he stopped. His eyes were wet and tears started to roll down his cheeks. He didn’t make any sound; instead he slowly shook his head as the sadness of the news flowed over him. ‘I have to go to the mortuary to identify him,’ he eventually said, ‘but I am sure it will be him.’ He went into the salon and sank into an armchair where he sat with his head buried in his hands and let his feelings free.

  Grainger left him to grieve in private and went to his room. Things were getting messy and he began to wonder if there was any point in staying with the mission. There was little doubt in his mind that Kasha had killed the young man, but it was irrational. He was struggling with the idea that the Pole would put the entire mission at risk for whatever money it was that Evangeline might have taken.

  An hour later Mathieu came up the stairs to Grainger’s room and tapped on the door. ‘I’m going to the mortuary,’ Mathieu told him. ‘We were close; he was my brother and I loved him.’ With that he left.

  When Mathieu returned he seemed more composed but his mood was still sombre. ‘It was him,’ was all he said, then went to the kitchen to prepare some food. They sat at the table in silence. Grainger had decided to say nothing until the boy was ready to talk; then he would tell him that he planned to take his chances and drive north in the Citroen – try to get back to Legrand in Paris.

  ‘They’ve got Evangeline,’ Mathieu said when he finally decided to speak again. ‘I heard them talking about it. I had to go to the gendarmerie to sign some papers. They are holding her there for interrogation. They are waiting for somebody to come and question her – some German, probably Gestapo – a man called Schreiber, I think.’

  It was the worst news and his worst fear. She would talk; she was bound to. They would rough her up and she would talk and when she did she would destroy his cover. It would only be a matter of time and there probably wasn’t much of that. ‘Did they say when she was to be questioned?’

  ‘Tomorrow, I think. I don’t know, I wasn’t really listening.’

  In Grainger’s mind he was trying to form a plan but nothing was presenting itself. Unless he could come up with something he would have to make a run for it. There was still fuel in the car though he wasn’t sure how much.

  ‘Do you want to come with me or will you stay?’

  Mathieu nodded. ‘Can’t stay here. Which way will you go?

  ‘I was planning to work my way back to Paris but if you’re coming along it makes sense to go south, try to get to Spain.’

  ‘If we can get as far as Avignon my parents will help you.’

  ‘Unless I can think of anything else that’s it then. Bring whatever food there is in the kitchen – and water. It’s safer if we don’t stop anywhere.’

  *

  At six o’clock in the morning they arrived to collect her for interrogation. It was still dark and she had slept badly, with nothing but a thin blanket and her coat bundled tightly around her. The cell had no heating and the damp penetrated the walls, making it impossible to get warm. A sergeant brought her some thin coffee in a tin mug. He had been the only one to show her any kindness. He was older t
han the others and seemed to care – maybe he had a daughter, she thought. The younger men had been nasty; they had laughed at her plight and spoken rudely to her.

  ‘We’ve had a phone call, mademoiselle,’ he said solemnly; there was a hint of regret in his voice – he knew what that message meant and he felt sad for her. ‘They’re coming to collect you for questioning. It’s the Gestapo. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Can I use the toilet before they take me?’ She was trembling so much the words came out in a pathetic little stutter. Between the cold and the fear she was finding it hard to control her voice, to get the words out coherently. The sergeant agreed she could and took her along a dark corridor to where they found a door marked ‘Toilette privée’.

  ‘This is the officers’ toilet,’ he said sympathetically. ‘There’s a piece of soap in there; you can have a little wash and do your hair.’

  The room was larger than she had expected and it was warm. A heavy cast iron radiator hung on one wall, pumping out its heat generously, and for a short while she stood, her back pressed against it, soaking up the comfort of its hot metal tubes. She sat on the toilet and tried not to think of what would happen soon, once she was in the hands of the Gestapo. She knew what it was going to be and she knew she would have to tell them what she knew. What frightened her was that she knew very little – if they did not believe her then the nightmare could be unending. That was how it worked; you had to tell them what they wanted to hear – even if it was not true.

  The sergeant knocked lightly on the door. ‘Come along, mademoiselle, time to go now. They’re here for you.’

  They filed along the corridor, Evangeline in front and the sergeant close behind. At the end he came past her and opened a door. Her heart was pounding and again she was trembling, though this time it was no longer from the cold. They stood in front of the counter and made her sign her name in a book to show that she had been discharged into the hands of the interrogators; then they took her to one side where she sat on a hard chair and waited. She drew in a sharp breath as the man who had come to take her walked in. He was wearing the hallmark black leather coat of the Gestapo and a wide-brimmed hat pulled down across his eyes. He looked contemptuously at the trio of gendarmes in front of him.

  ‘Where are her personal things?’ he demanded arrogantly. One of the three hurried to a side office. There was the sound of voices and when the door opened again a captain appeared holding a knapsack and a woman’s handbag. He put them on the desk at which the sergeant was sitting.

  ‘Do you need these things?’ he stared questioningly at the German. ‘Won’t you bring her back here again?’

  The German dismissed the question with a wave of his hand and instead opened the knapsack and went through the contents; then he did the same with the handbag. He looked at the captain. ‘All of it!’

  The captain started to protest but the German held out his hand and there was a threatening expression on his face. ‘Maybe you would like to come along to the interrogation as well.’

  The captain shuffled uncomfortably and went back to his office. He returned with an envelope stuffed with Swiss currency. The German took out the notes and counted them. He pulled a sour face. ‘And the rest of it. Do you think we are stupid? We know exactly what this woman was carrying and you should be aware that stealing from the Reich is punishable by firing squad.’ He held out a black leather gloved hand. The captain looked at the gendarmes who were now fumbling around in their trouser pockets pulling out the missing notes.

  ‘I shall make a report of this,’ the German said maliciously. He looked over at Evangeline. ‘Bring her out.’

  One of the gendarmes took her by the wrist. He had a pair of handcuffs in the other hand but when he started to cuff her the German scowled. ‘Don’t bother,’ he sneered, ‘it’s only a woman.’

  They led Evangeline out to where a car waited. The driver didn’t bother to get out and the German did not bother to salute the captain or even acknowledge him. ‘Typical arrogant Gestapo,’ the captain said to the others. ‘Bastards.’

  *

  The morning was cold but it was bright with an ice-blue sky. The ornamental iron railings that guarded the entrance to the Terminus Hotel were still crisp with the overnight frost. Schreiber had a satisfied smile on his face as he headed for a rendezvous with Duval and the girl, Evangeline Pfeiffer; now he would have some answers. The gendarmerie at La Part Dieu was not far and the walk was invigorating; it was an opportunity to fix the interrogation in his mind. The girl would have had a rough night’s sleep and that would make her more malleable, more inclined to talk. He did not think she was a particularly important piece in the jigsaw of events but he was sure she would have information on Kasha’s plans.

  When he arrived at the gendarmerie Duval was already there and from the face that greeted him Schreiber sensed something was not quite right. Standing next to Duval was a captain and he too looked as if he was struggling with an explanation. Duval turned as Schreiber came through the glazed doors at the entrance and walked into the reception.

  ‘Ah, Kriminalinspector,’ he called in a voice that displayed a touch of frustration. ‘Good morning. Perhaps you can clear up something for us.’

  Schreiber strode over to the two men and they politely shook hands. ‘So?’ he looked quizzically at the two policemen, ‘how can I help?’

  ‘It’s the girl, the one we arrested yesterday. Did you arrange for her removal to another place this morning?’

  Schreiber's face darkened. ‘I did not. Are you telling me the girl is no longer in your custody.’

  Duval switched his gaze to the captain and then back to Schreiber whose face betrayed the fact that he knew nothing of the matter.

  Duval looked worried. ‘What are you telling me? You know nothing about this? It was one of your people; he came here this morning – at six. He said he was Gestapo. He knew all about the girl, everything, her description, what she had with her – everything.’

  ‘Did you think to ask him for his identification? Did he have one of these!?’ He pulled out his warrant disc and waved it at the captain, who had now gone red in the face. Duval turned his head back to the captain again, waiting for the response. The captain gathered himself together. ‘He had papers, Reich papers. I saw them.’

  ‘The Gestapo don’t present papers. They use this.’ Schreiber shook the disc at the captain, who stiffened then regained his composure and turned to face Duval, who now looked like thunder. ‘Now I think on it, Commissaire, it was not Gestapo. He was from their security services.’ He nodded in the direction of Schreiber, indicating it was a German matter and he had cooperated as he was required to under the general direction for liaison issued to all fonctionnaires by the government.

  Schreiber snorted a short puff through his nostrils and considered what the captain had said. ‘Was it Abwehr?’ The words came out slowly and deliberately; he narrowed his eyes.

  ‘No, the other one.’

  ‘Sicherheitsdienst?’

  ‘Yes, I think so.’

  ‘And what did this man look like?’

  ‘Like you expect Gestapo to look.’ The captain shrugged.

  ‘Can you perhaps describe him?’

  The captain thought for a moment. He did not like being questioned; that was what he did, and it was worse coming from a German. He felt his Gallic contempt rising inside him and found it difficult not to show it. ‘He was tall, probably late twenties or early thirties. I could not see his face well, he was wearing a hat and spectacles.’

  ‘Did he say where they were taking her?’

  The captain shook his head. ‘No, nothing. They just took her.’

  Very slowly Schreiber rubbed his hands together, his mind taking in what seemed to have happened. ‘There is no point in my being here,’ he said sardonically and, after a perfunctory handshake, left the building. As soon as he reached the hotel he phoned Berlin. ‘Find out what is going on, Becker. I want to know if the SD or the Abwehr have lifted
the girl, and call me as soon as you have anything. I want to know what they are up to.’

  CHAPTER 16

  Evasion

  The morning following the girl’s removal Schreiber still had no answers. He ran himself a bath; the water was steaming hot and as it fogged the mirror screwed to the tiled wall the irony struck him that in Germany, with the rationing, he could only get two hot baths a week, but here he could have as many as he wanted – and this, in all but name, was supposed to be a defeated nation. He sat in the luxury of the hot water and brooded on the case. He needed more answers but every new piece of information only seemed to destroy all his previous conclusions.

  ‘Monsieur Schreiber!’ Someone out in the corridor was banging on the bedroom door. He hauled himself out of the bath and, still dripping, went with a towel wrapped around his lower torso and shouted through the door at the unseen caller.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Telephone, monsieur; from Berlin

  ‘Tell them I’ll call back.’

  In the lift his mood lightened; perhaps Becker had unearthed something.

  ‘So, Becker, what have you for me today?’ He heard a click as the switchboard operator got off the line.

  ‘The SD is adamant it was not one of their men who took the girl; but there is another thing, Kriminalinspector. According to the Abwehr, Kraus was receiving money, a lot of money. His bank account shows a number of payments that did not come from the Reichsbank, so it isn’t his salary – they were cash deposits.’

  Armed with the information from Becker, Schreiber left the hotel and went out onto the street where he found a taxi. ‘Prefecture,’ he told the driver.

  When he got there he found Duval was still smarting from the discomfort the gendarmerie had place on him the day before. Schreiber was more sanguine; he had given the position more thought and a picture was beginning to emerge. ‘There is no point or profit in anger,’ he said as he sat himself down to face Duval. ‘We have to deal with what we have in our hands.’ There was more to the case than he had first thought. He was now sure the imposter who took the woman was in some way connected with the man he had seen only days before, the man he believed to be a British agent. Duval raised his eyebrows and waited for an explanation.