by John Gardner
‘Not until we’ve got this mess sorted out, Caro,’ Naldo told her. ‘We need to hear your story. From the beginning. Let’s hear it, love. First, is there truth in the accusation that you were Klaubert’s mistress?’
Caroline began to cry. It was eerie, for she cried silently, as though with a grief which concerned only ghostly memories. Then the tears ceased, she blew her nose, took a deep breath, and began to talk. What she had to tell them put the whole matter into a clear, sharp focus.
She knew nothing about Florence’s association with Klaubert as mistress and secret emergency contact for the NKVD in general and Ramillies in particular.
‘Felix advised us – Jo-Jo and me – to see and be seen,’ she began. From the very moment they arrived in St Benoît-sur-Loire, as Catherine and Anne Routon, they were urged to mix with the villagers and even make friends in Orléans. This was in the first days of the Nazi Occupation, before the SS and Gestapo began to show their teeth.
‘Jo-Jo would make trips into Orléans, and I used to go each Wednesday or Thursday. Just to look around, maybe seek out contacts. Certainly to keep cover. I used to go into a little patisserie for what passed as tea – though how they managed I don’t know. Maybe the Germans befriended them – gave them extra rations.’
She had been sitting in the patisserie one afternoon when Klaubert came in. ‘You could sense the atmosphere. People were hostile. We all knew this man had been appointed head of the SS. Nobody wanted to be seen with him. I suppose there were maybe six or seven women in the place that afternoon. When he came in, they all got up and left, with a lot of show. I felt I should stay. Who knew how it would turn out? But I was certainly not going to call attention to myself by leaving in an ostentatious manner.’
Klaubert had come over to the table and asked – in excellent French – if he might join her. She had no option but to say yes.
‘It was very strange. He was cultured. He’d read a great deal; liked art and music. We talked about Wagner – it so happens that I like Wagner.’ Naldo noticed that as she spoke about Klaubert her cheeks began to flush with colour and her eyes looked feverish.
‘We got on well together. I thought it might help the réseau – help Tarot, so I spoke with Felix. He said by all means I should foster this relationship, but he told me to keep it hidden. Neither of us was to discuss it with other members of the réseau.’
She became Klaubert’s lover one month after they first met, and the relationship continued right up to the end. She knew of Hannalore Bauer – ‘He sent her away,’ she said. ‘At least that’s what he told me. I don’t know what to believe, though there was one small incident.’
She told of how one summer evening she had allowed herself to be seen publicly with Klaubert. ‘He took me in his car to a deserted spot out of Orléans – quite close to Benoît, actually. A wood.’ There she seemed to stop, and choke. ‘It was the place where they shot and buried the priest, the doctor, and poor Annabelle – Florence.’
As though overcome by some horrific memory, she went white, her hand shaking, as she clenched and unclenched her fists trying to control herself.
‘Klaubie…’ She began. ‘Klaubie…’
‘Klaubie?’ Arnie asked.
She swallowed, took a breath, and forced herself to continue. ‘It was what I called him. I called him Klaubie.’
Klaubert had kissed her in the wood, near a clearing. ‘His eyes glistened, as though he would cry. Then he said, “My first love lies here.” He kept repeating it – “My first love… My first love lies here.”’
Naldo asked how she knew this was the place where they had taken the priest, the doctor, and the girl. He thought she was going to become hysterical. She balled her small fists and began to pound the table. ‘Because they made us watch it all. Jo-Jo and I were made to watch some of what happened to Annabelle, in the cellars. Then we were taken with them to the wood. We thought we were also going to be shot. They kept us each in a different cell, and the night before – when we had seen some of the terrible things they did to Annabelle – Klaubie sent me a note. He asked me to destroy it…’ She gave a small, bitter laugh. ‘I did destroy it. He wrote this note in English. I think he had guessed I was English by then. He must have also known that I was finished with him. That I could not believe in him anymore.’
‘What was the note?’ Arnie asked. The whole session had gone on a long time now, for there had been many pauses. Many moments when Caroline found it too difficult to speak of certain things.
‘He said it was from a letter written by Henry the Eighth to Anne Boleyn – and you know what happened to her. The letter said he loved her, and wanted her – wanted to kiss her breasts. “Whose pretty duckies I trust shortly to kiss,”’ she quoted, then fell silent.
Both Naldo and Arnie tried to prompt her, but as she talked her mind went to and fro, moving backward and forward between her first days as Klaubert’s lover to the last horrific hours of Tarot.
‘I think he killed the other woman and had her buried in the wood – Hannalore, I mean. It was as though he was telling me this had happened. It was just before he began to take action in Orléans.’
‘You mean before he started to arrest people – deport them?’
She gave a little nod. ‘Jews. Honest French people. Men who had been in the French Army and managed to get home. Men, women, children. Then he started on the other réseaux. A terrible number of people died or just suddenly disappeared.’
‘And you went on meeting him?’
‘Oh, yes. When something really awful happened – people shot or taken away – he would be near despair. He would cry on my shoulder and ask if God would forgive him. Klaubie was like a child at those times. It seemed such a long while ago, until Marcel killed him the other day. He saw me in the car, caught my eye just before Marcel fired. He… he smiled at me, and I remembered how he was, how distraught at the things he had to do.’
‘But he did them just the same,’ Naldo said, trying to sound hard, using the cutting edge of his voice.
‘He did them, then wept on my breast. A paradox of a man. Ruthless. Evil. Yet full of guilt. He let the guilt flow out of him and tried to bury himself and his guilt in me. That was one of the reasons why Marcel’s plan was such a good idea.’
Another long silence. Both Naldo and Arnie wanted to ask what she meant by ‘Marcel’s plan,’ but waited. Then they tried to drag her mind back to the last days. ‘They made you watch everything? After the arrests?’
‘Everything. The execution in the garden. The rape. The shooting in the wood. Then they brought us back. Took us into Klaubie’s office. He looked at me as though he’d never seen me before and said we would not die. That he’d had a telephone order about us. We would be taken to Berlin. They wanted to speak with us there, but he had been assured of our safety. He put out his hand but neither of us would take it. Then he smiled and two of his officers came in.’
‘Otto Buelow?’
‘No. Two of the young ones. They gave us cigarettes and said some men were waiting to take us to Berlin. They drove us to the station. They joked in the car. I remember we laughed, even though we still thought they were taking us to some camp. We couldn’t believe our eyes when we saw Marcel.’ She gave a smile which for once lit up her eyes. ‘You see, Marcel always said he would get us out. He had ways. Documents. Papers. Passports. He was there, with Dollhiem. They gave papers to Klaubie’s officers. Signed for us, then took us off by train – at least Marcel did. He said he did not trust Dollhiem. He left Dollhiem in Orléans.’
Tiraque had got them out, using his own strange, carefully husbanded network and the passports and documents he always seemed to be able to get his hands on. Caspar had once said the man was a genius at deception – that he must have some forger working for him. ‘For him alone. I could never have got such authentic documents.’ Tiraque worked a particular magic in getting people in and out.
‘He took us to Switzerland.’ Caroline said it as though it
was a peacetime holiday. ‘We changed our appearance, and I said I wanted to come back to England. Jo-Jo said it also.’
‘He wouldn’t let you?’
Caroline appeared to be thinking, her brow creased. ‘It wasn’t that he would not let us go. He gave us motivation for something else – ’
‘Caro – ’ Naldo stopped her, then cursed himself silently. He could well have halted the flow of her thoughts. ‘Caro, two questions. First, were you ever Marcel’s lover?’
‘Of course.’ She looked at her cousin as though he was an idiot. ‘We all slept with him, Annabelle, Jo-Jo, myself. He was so wonderful. When he came to visit – with orders, or just passing through – at Benoît, it was like fresh air. We felt enclosed and trapped. He gave us pleasure. Made us laugh and have hope for the world. Surely you know how it was for people in the field, Naldo? People who had been sent by men like Uncle Caspar.’
‘You hated Caspar for what he asked you to do?’
‘Is that your second question?’
‘No, an extra.’
‘Sometimes. Sometimes I hated him. Then, when I saw him again, I realised that it was his job. That we had been asked and went. We were doing our duty.’
Naldo said nothing. He did not even nod. ‘The other question. Did Marcel Tiraque call Klaubert and say he had orders from Berlin?’
‘Yes. That’s what he told us.’
‘And Klaubert just obeyed – like that? He didn’t ask to see the orders?’
‘No. No – I’ve thought a lot about it. Marcel says that it was a chance in a million. He knew where we were and he bluffed on the telephone. He simply said that we were to be sent to the railway station and he would hand over the instructions there. I think Klaubie was pleased. He didn’t want to make the decision about me. I knew him, Naldo. He would put off some of the worst decisions for days. Then, as I’ve said, when it was done, he would cry, take me, pray, call down damnation on himself… I… I didn’t realise… realise…’ She began to cry again. ‘I didn’t realise how much I loved this strange, blind, ruthless, horrible man until I saw Marcel kill him in New York.’ She could not go on, so they called it a day and played back the recordings to Caspar that night.
‘It makes sense,’ Caspar said. ‘Now you have to home in on how Tiraque persuaded them not to let anyone know they were safe. Get her to sing about what they all did together. They were the strangest ménage à trois, but Tiraque’s been clever. Incredibly clever.’ Then, to Naldo’s bewilderment, Caspar added, ‘And so has Ramillies.’
Chapter Forty-one
The next morning, Naldo and Arnie homed straight in on the events which followed the escape of Tiraque and the girls into Switzerland. Caroline had eaten well, they were told by the baby-sitters, and she looked rested.
‘Caro,’ Naldo began, ‘Yesterday you said that when Tiraque – when Marcel – got you to Switzerland, you both wanted to go home, but…’ He looked at his notes, as if checking, though he knew exactly what he was going to ask. ‘You said Marcel gave you motivation for something else. What did you mean?’
‘Please understand, Naldo. It took time to get out – right out of France, I mean. We hid for weeks on end. Sometimes we were very near the fighting. It was difficult. We got to Switzerland in about March – that would be 1945.’
They had stayed at the Ascona house. Tiraque introduced them to women who helped them to restyle their hair and make subtle alterations to their looks. ‘I was a blonde for some time. A blonde with spectacles. Jo-Jo became a redhead. We played games…’ Her voice trailed off, and Naldo wondered what kind of games they played in that house hard by Lake Maggiore. He could guess.
‘Then the war ended and you wanted to play games back home?’ Naldo smiled as he spoke.
‘Something like that. At first Marcel said yes. Why don’t we telephone your people to let them know you’re safe? We couldn’t do that before. He said you never knew who was listening, and we were in Switzerland illegally. Then, just as we were going to make the calls, he asked us to wait.’
Tiraque had thrown a dinner party especially for them. No other guests, but he arranged an elaborate dinner, with special table decorations, good wines, wonderful food, and extravagant party favours. When they reached the coffee, he handed cigarettes around and put forward his proposition.
‘He said the war was over and, yes, probably our people were looking for us. But we still had a job to do. We’d all got used to living secret lives. Wouldn’t it be better to complete the job first, and then go home, triumphant? We must have looked like two ninnies, because he laughed and we asked, “What job? What’ve we got to finish?”’
Tiraque had bluntly said, ‘Vengeance.’
They were puzzled, then he began to draw the picture for them. He told them that he knew – knew for certain – that Klaubert was still alive and in hiding. So was Buelow – his deputy, his second-in-command.’
‘We said that surely the Allies would round up people like Klaubert and Buelow, and he laughed again, calling us fools. He told us we were naive. The Allies would get the very big fish. The people who ran the death camps; people like Himmler and Goering. But Klaubert and those like him would get away and make new lives for themselves.’
At first they were uncertain. But Tiraque was not to be put off. ‘Think of the adventure. The fun of the chase. What’ll happen if you just go home now? Your families will welcome you back. Then you’ll be expected to marry and settle down.’ He gave a great guffaw. ‘Can you see yourselves as obedient little housewives? After all you’ve been through? Take some time – a year. Have one more adventure. One more secret year to your lives. Just the three of us. We’ll reap a harvest, I promise. A harvest of revenge.’
Both Naldo and Arnie could almost hear the persuasion in Tiraque’s voice. They would be so easily hooked.
‘He was right, of course,’ Caroline continued. ‘Though it took more than a year, it was all great fun. Staying out of sight. Hiding. Buying the place in Paris. Searching a very dirty, dishevelled Europe. But each day we hoped for revenge. I wanted to bring home Klaubert’s head to Redhill Manor. I dreamed of walking into the dining room with his head on a silver charger, like the head of John the Baptist, and presenting it to Mummy and Daddy, saying, “There you are. That’s the bastard who sent thousands to their deaths, and who violated me.” I wanted just one of them – preferably Klaubert…’
‘Who did not violate you. You loved him,’ Naldo said almost under his breath.
‘Yes.’ She altered. Suddenly. Dramatically. Her eyes feverish again and the sweet voice harsh. ‘Yes. I wanted to see my Nazi lover dead. It was what he wanted, I’m sure.’
‘So you went out, looked, and could not find him?’
‘Right.’ She was her old self again. The Caroline from the day before, and from the years before. ‘I don’t regret it, though. Not one bit. And if they want to hang me for killing Buelow, or Jo-Jo for getting rid of the treacherous Dollhiem, then I’ll hang happy.’
‘You? You killed Otto Buelow?’
‘Yes.’ Matter-of-fact. Precise.
Naldo urged her to go on. ‘We searched Europe. Went almost everywhere. Paris was our base, but we were away for weeks, months, at a time. Sometimes Marcel would go alone.’
‘Where?’
‘Berlin. London. Only last year he employed a freelance surveillance team. They watched you, and others, in London. Then they lost you and Marcel was very angry.’ She swallowed, her eyes darting between Naldo and Arnie. ‘Marcel even went into the East, into Russian territory. He was dedicated. As each day, week, month went by, we all became dedicated.’ She threw back her head, and gave a laugh – it was not hysteria, but genuine amusement. ‘We all went to London. Several times – only last week…’
She laughed again. ‘I actually followed Caspar. Lord, it was funny. I was told – by Marcel, of course – to watch that terrible little house you all used in Northolt.’
‘You knew about the Northolt house?’
> ‘Oh, yes. For the past few months, when we knew the only way to find Klaubert was for you to lead us to him.’ She looked at Naldo and giggled. ‘We came over here on the same flight as you. You, Daddy, and Caspar. Only a hundred people on that plane, and you didn’t even notice us. Mind you, we were very low-key. Kept out of sight. I was padded and rather fat; Marcel had grown a beard – he shaved it off as soon as we arrived; Jo-Jo was pregnant. Marcel always says that the art of not being recognised lies in just being there, in a crowd, but in a condition nobody expects. He’s right, you know.’
‘Can we go back a little, Caro?’ Naldo was starting to follow everything now. It was what he had seen and felt when he opened the car door and saw the girls crouched behind the Colt automatic. ‘You spent months searching for Klaubert. When did everything really break for you?’
‘When Marcel discovered the Americans – your people, Arnie – were using Otto Buelow.’
‘Yes?’
‘He came back to Paris and told us.’
‘Came back from where?’
She shook her head violently, arms rising, hands, with fingers splayed, shaking. ‘I don’t know. He was away for a couple of weeks. Then he came back and told us the Americans were sheltering Klaubert’s deputy: Buelow. He ranted on about it. Said it was typical, that it was going on everywhere – England and America. They were actually using Buelow to help them in security matters. Allowing that damned Nazi killer to advise them – ’
‘I didn’t know that Otto Buelow killed anyone.’
‘Well, he gave orders, didn’t he? He was Klaubert’s lackey. Klaubie didn’t like him. He told me, after Buelow arrived – he said that Buelow licked his boots, fawned and toadied.’
‘Really?’ Naldo nodded as though to himself. ‘So you don’t know where Marcel got this information about Buelow being in the States? You don’t know where he had been, to find this out?’