The Girl in the Baker's Van

by Richard Savin

  ‘I will kill you if I have to,’ he snarled.

  ‘There’s nobody upstairs, boss,’ a voice called from behind him. The scarecrow slowly lowered his pistol. The other man who had been despatched to look in the cellar and out in the garden came in through the kitchen.

  ‘Nothing,’ he said shaking his head. ‘Checked the garage too but there’s nothing.’

  ‘I told you there was no one here.’

  An evil smile spread across the face of the scarecrow, parting his thin lips to reveal two gold teeth. ‘So let’s have a little talk, shall we.’ He pushed Varailles roughly towards the salon. ‘I’m going to introduce you to a colleague of mine, a little lady who’s, shall we say, an expert in persuasion.’ He turned abruptly to the man who had come in from the garden. ‘Marcel, get her in here; she should be round the back somewhere.’ The man grinned as he left the room. He knew it would be entertaining – and there would be results.

  A few minutes later there was the sound of footsteps in the hall. ‘Marcel?’ The scarecrow turned but instead of Marcel three men had entered the room – one was wearing a dark blue serge overcoat; the other two were in the uniform of the gendarmerie. The man in the blue serge overcoat stepped forward. ‘De Rainsville,’ he announced tersely, ‘Prefect of Police. What are you doing here?’

  The scarecrow was momentarily shocked into inertia as he looked at the three figures now standing in the salon. ‘Where is my man?’ he snapped angrily.

  ‘In custody,’ De Rainsville said calmly. ‘Please put down that gun.’ He turned to the other man, ‘you too. Put them on the floor and do it gently, please; we wouldn’t want one to go off accidentally and result in someone being shot.’ He punctuated the statement with a forced grin that was more a grimace than an attempt to placate.

  The scarecrow nodded towards his accomplice, indicating he should comply. The other man knelt down and placed his submachine gun on the floor, then pushed it away with his foot. The scarecrow threw his pistol casually onto the soft seat of the nearby settee where Monsieur Varailles was sitting. Varailles leaned across and picked up the weapon; the position was completely reversed. The scarecrow had regained his composure and now looked unperturbed by what had just transpired. He tucked his thumbs into the buttonholes on the lapels of his camel hair overcoat and pulled the garment open; then he carefully put his hand across to the inside pocket where the top of a document was visible, sticking up above the lining.

  ‘Inspector Bonny. Carlingue,’ he said and, shaking the folds out of the paper, offered it to the Prefect. ‘I have a warrant for the arrest of a British agent. We have information that he is hiding here together with a woman résistante.’

  De Rainsville stretched out an open hand; Bonny deposited the paper into his palm. There was a spell of silence as the Prefect read it. He thought for a moment then looked questioningly at Bonny. ‘Why did you not come to the Prefecture with this so that things could be done properly – officially?’

  ‘I had no need; this warrant is enough.’

  ‘Well, actually, no it isn’t. Your warrant was signed by a judge in Paris and that’s in the Occupied Zone and you are in Vichy; and while we have instructions to assist in matters like this there are protocols and you would have to go to a magistrate here to obtain a warrant with legal force. So I am afraid you are here illegally and as Prefect that is something which naturally concerns me.’ He handed the paper back to Bonny who snatched it sulkily and stuffed it back into his pocket. The Prefect then turned to Monsieur Varailles.

  ‘Are you all right, sir?’ Varailles nodded.

  ‘Can I take it, monsieur, that you are not harbouring any spies or agents?’

  ‘Of course. You have my word there is no one in the house other than me and these people.’

  ‘Good, then we shall leave you to what is left of your night’s sleep.’ He turned to Bonny and the other man; there was an air of contrived urbanity about his manner but it barely disguised his distaste for them.

  ‘You will need to come to the Prefecture with me where we shall see if we can regularise matters. I am sure we shall be able to work out some arrangement with a magistrate to allow you to continue your search. We would not wish to prevent you from apprehending our mutual enemies.’ He smiled and held out a hand indicating that they should lead the way out of the house under the charge of the two gendarmes. ‘We shall return your weapons when I have issued an authorisation certificate. It’s not a complicated matter but it is procedure – you will understand.’

  Bonny grunted and stalked out into the hall to join the others where they formed a little queue: a gendarme in front, then Bonny and his accomplice and then the other gendarme carrying the confiscated weapons. De Rainsville held back for a moment then, when the others were out of sight, he embraced Monsieur Varailles. ‘We came as soon as Mathieu called.’

  ‘I’m in your debt, Georges. Do you think they’ll be back?’

  The Prefect shrugged, ‘I can leave a man to guard the house for a few days if you like.’

  ‘That would be good.’

  ‘You should be careful, David. The net is tightening around Pétain. The Germans are squeezing him to do their dirty work; it can’t be long before he is pushed out – and then what?’

  *

  It was the second morning on board the barge and the day was fine with an azure sky and a temperate breeze. As they moved slowly south the air had become milder with a warm wind blowing up from North Africa that held out the promise of spring. Along the banks, behind the ancient planes that lined the waterway, the fields were dotted with almond trees, white like snow with the first blossoms of the season. The night before they had moored at Villeneuve, just below the lock on the Toulouse side next to the lockkeeper’s house.

  There was a small shop in the front room of the house where the bargee had bought fresh bread; back on board he had brewed coffee on the stove. He produced a ceramic pot of fig jam from one of the cupboards and they had sat out on the deck in the morning sunshine eating their breakfast like a couple of tourists. The deck was stacked with sweet-smelling new oak barrels for the Narbonne vignerons and they had found a small space to sit down among them. They rested there with their backs propped up against the barrels, which had been warmed by the morning sun, Evangeline with her knees bent up almost under her chin and Grainger lolling casually with his legs stretched out in front of him. The slow progress of the barge had lulled him into a surreal casualness, as if the task in front of him was merely a jaunt; more than once he had to remind himself of the reality. They would be in Narbonne the day after tomorrow. Once there Grainger knew it would be back to the hardnosed business of rounding up Kasha and getting him across the Pyrenees. He had no idea what the Pole was up to running out on them like that and if Father Guillaume was right about the death of Paul, Kasha had some tough questions to answer. But for the moment he could do nothing, so he might as well enjoy the ride. He glanced over at Evangeline, the breeze gently ruffling the curls in her hair and wondered what she would do once they’d reached Narbonne. She had made no mention of her plans and he wasn’t even sure she had any.

  She was, he thought, a curious mix of naïvety and independence. There were moments when she acted almost like a child in the simplicity of her thoughts, but she had also shown herself to be quite worldly. Her dealings with Kasha and her sanguine approach to the disposal of the body in the ravine were the responses of someone with a reasoning mindset and that did not always fit in with the girl he saw sitting in front of him. It was as if she dealt with these extraordinary events on an ad hoc basis, as and when they arose – but the main thrust of her thoughts and ambitions seemed to dwell somewhere out there in the future, in a land where this inconvenient war was over. It was as if she was prepared to manage the present but not be part of it. She was not, he concluded, a committed résistante; not like Robert and the others back there in Abbeville. As far as he could determine she and her brother had merely been helpers when they got caught u
p in this thing and she was now being swept along by events.

  Fleetingly it occurred to him he would miss her company, he had become used to her being around, but what the hell he told himself, he had a job to do and he couldn’t let anything distract him from the task in hand.

  ‘Why did you ask me if I was married the other day?’ he asked idly, leaning over onto one elbow and resting his face on the open palm of his hand.

  A smile curled around her mouth just for a second or two. ‘Oh, I don’t know, just curious I think.’

  ‘I thought we weren’t supposed to ask questions like this – you know – security and all that.’

  She let out a short sigh and looked thoughtful. ‘Doesn’t really matter,’ she said, without much concern. ‘Another two days and I shall be heading over the mountains and into Spain. None of this will matter then.’

  ‘Is that what you plan to do?’

  ‘I don’t have much choice really. I can’t go back to Turckheim; the Gestapo would arrest me. Women don’t stand a lot of chance once they are sucked into the camps – they just disappear.’ They were silent for a moment and he thought she was going to leave it there. ‘I can’t go back – not until the Nazis have been thrown out of France.’

  ‘What happens if they aren’t – if they win the war – what then?’

  ‘I have the money I took from Kasha. It’s a lot; I’ll find a small house in a village by the sea and find some kind of work.’

  ‘Doesn’t it worry you that you stole his money?’

  ‘Should it?’

  ‘I don’t know, I’m not you.’

  The faraway look came back into her eyes and he thought perhaps she was struggling with that one, but then she said quite matter of fact, ‘No. I helped him escape from the SD and I helped him dispose of the body of the man he killed. It has ruined my life. I think the payment is fair.’

  ‘Do you think you can manage on your own in a small backward village somewhere?’

  ‘I’ll get by,’ she said flippantly. ‘Who knows, I might even find a handsome bullfighter and he’ll marry me.’

  Grainger laughed.

  ‘Why do you find that so funny?’ she said, leaning forward and slapping his leg in a gesture of admonishment, then burst into a laugh herself.

  ‘Sorry,’ he teased her, ‘that was ungallant of me. ‘You are a very attractive woman. Why, if there wasn’t this bloody war on I’d ask you to marry me myself.’

  ‘And, as you say, if there wasn’t this bloody war on I might accept,’ and once more she burst into laughter. He smiled and shook his head; the conversation seemed to have run dry and they fell into silence.

  They were on a long straight stretch of the canal approaching a bridge when Grainger noticed something. He put out a hand and gently tapped on her shoe. ‘That’s strange.’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘I think we’re being followed,’ he said quietly, a serious tone to his voice. ‘Don’t look up; wait till we’ve gone under the bridge. As we come out the other side you’ll see him; lift your eyes but not your head.’

  As the barge slid under the old stone canal bridge, she saw him. A man in a brown gabardine raincoat and a trilby-style hat was leaning casually on the parapet. ‘What makes you think he’s watching us? It’s a nice day; he could just be out walking his dog.’

  Grainger shook his head slowly but kept his gaze off the man until they were far enough away, then he watched him leave the bridge and disappear below the line of sight. ‘No – he’s watching us all right. That’s the second time I’ve seen him this morning. He was stooging around the lock at Villeneuve.’

  Anxiety clouded her face. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Absolutely certain.’

  ‘Who do you think he is?’

  ‘No idea; could be Vichy, could be Gestapo.’

  ‘Maybe it was the message you sent – through the consulate?’

  ‘Could be. You made a phone call back at Varailles’ house – to the baker wasn’t it? He could have informed on us.’

  ‘I don’t know – I don’t think so.’

  ‘Why not?’

  Evangeline looked uncomfortable; she was no longer sure of anyone any more. ‘He’s a family friend,’ she said, but without much conviction.

  ‘I thought you and your brother worked for him.’

  ‘We do – or did, until all this happened.’ She took her eyes off him and looked down at her shoes as if embarrassed by the questions. ‘He’s been good to us. My father was a professor of history at the University in Colmar, but after the Germans took over he was suspended; he refused to follow the Nazi doctrine. Joseph gave us work.’ She gave a little shrug of her shoulders.

  ‘So why did you need to phone him?’

  ‘I wanted him to give news of me to my parents, that I was well, but all he wanted to talk about was his stupid van.’

  Grainger thought for a moment. ‘Maybe the Gestapo have tapped his line.’ He paused again while he considered the prospect. ‘No, that would have led them to the house in Avignon. This has to be something else.’

  They reached the next major lock at Fonserannes, close to the city of Béziers, just as the light was fading. ‘We’ll stay overnight here,’ Groucho said in a carefully constructed sentence, and beamed at her when Evangeline indicated that she had understood what had been said. ‘Neuf écluses.’ He pointed ahead to where a ladder of nine locks enclosing eight pools climbed away in front of them rising twenty metres over a distance of three hundred metres to the plain above. It would, Groucho tortuously explained, take them five or more hours to pass through the system and he would start at first light in the morning.

  Once he had secured the lines and deployed the passerelle Groucho went off accompanied by the dog to find something for the evening meal. He returned an hour later with two baguettes and some cold cooked pork. He stood at the small galley sink where he peeled and sliced potatoes and an onion. He put layers of the vegetables into the bottom of a cast iron casserole then covered it with the pork, finishing with a slug of white wine, a large pinch of salt, some pepper, some roughly crushed and chopped garlic and a bunch of dried herbs, which Grainger guessed he had foraged from the canal banks which were thick with wild fennel, marjoram and rosemary. That done, he set the pot on the top of the stove. Immediately the rich smell of the liaison began to fill the saloon. Grainger sniffed the air approvingly. ‘I know a few chefs in England he could give a lesson to.’

  All the while the dog watched patiently until at the end Groucho produced a few scraps of the fattier parts of the pork and a large beef bone, which he put on a tray and took up to the wheelhouse; the dog followed enthusiastically. When he came back down the companionway he was carrying a bottle of red wine and two glasses, which he put on the table, then left them while he went off to check that the deck cargo was properly secured and the mooring lines set right.

  Grainger poured some wine into the two glasses. ‘I’ve been thinking.’

  ‘What have you been thinking?’

  ‘If we are being watched – and I am sure we are being watched – then it could only mean one thing. They think we will lead them to Kasha.’

  ‘How would they know that?’

  ‘No idea, but I’d put money on it they know. After all, you were travelling with Kasha and you were with him when he killed the SD man at the farmhouse. We know the Gestapo was onto Kasha so it stands to reason the SD are still in the frame; they wouldn’t just drop it, not after he’d killed one of theirs. Besides, they know he has the package; as far as they’re concerned you’re just small fry. Whatever he’s got the Americans are desperate to get their hands on and I’m damned sure the SD wants to get it back before that happens. So it makes perfect sense to follow us rather than arrest us.’

  ‘How would they know who you are?’

  ‘My fingerprints are all over this caper. They’re bound to know.’

  ‘What does that mean – your fingerprints on a caper?’

  He
held up a hand and waved it meaninglessly in the air, pivoting it in small circles around his wrist. ‘American expression, don’t worry about it. They will know I lifted you out of the gendarmerie in Lyon, so they only have to follow you to find me …’

  ‘… and you to find Kasha.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘So what do we do?’

  ‘I don’t know but I’m working on it. One thing is sure – they seem to know most of our moves shortly after we make them.’

  *

  The phone on Becker’s desk rang, but there was no one to hear it; the British were bombing the city in an early-evening raid. Becker was down in the storage room of 37 East, huddled next to an overweight hausfrau who smelled like she could benefit from a bath. He was beginning to think he would rather take his chances with the British bombs when a bell in the corridor sounded a long single and continuous peal declaring the all clear. He reached his office and, as he entered, the phone once more started to demand attention.

  ‘A call from the Kriminalinspector,’ the voice of the switchboard operator told him.

  ‘Very good, please connect the call.’

  ‘I have heard from Duval. His informant says they are on a barge called the Pythias; they are heading for Narbonne – as we expected. Find me a hotel, Becker, I am leaving right away. Oh, and one other thing, find out who else is interested in this case. What about the Abwehr? Have they stuck their noses in?’