Single to Paris

by Single to Paris (retail) (epub)

  ‘Couldn’t we do something about those houses right away?’

  ‘You suggested it to Georges, I remember. But the answer’s still no, not—’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘—not right away, is what I’m saying. You look tired, Jeanne-Marie.’

  ‘So do you. Why not right away?’

  ‘Because – first – we’re in the process of getting ourselves equipped – armed. Two operations have been moderately successful – but not all that productive – while a third, Tuesday night, is much more promising, might well solve all our problems. For operations of this kind, you see, as well as weapons we need people who know how to use them. Especially for the Tuesday job. You don’t need to know what it is, but the man I’ve persuaded to lead it will be coming from the Préfecture – along with a bunch of others he’ll have picked himself. Policemen, yes – or will be when they put their uniforms on again. This is what I’ve been at pretty well all day. Believe me, it’s a necessary preliminary to taking the kind of action you want.’

  ‘Had Georges not set up anything of that kind?’

  ‘He thought he had, but – no. Dedication and fighting-spirit’s one thing, professionalism’s another.’ A shrug. ‘Listen to who’s talking. Rank amateur. But if we pull that one off—’

  ‘If.’ She leaned closer. Whispering… ‘And Tuesday night. That would mean – if as you say you get it right – then not before Wednesday. Wednesday night, of course. While these two – God’s sake, even if they’re alive now—’

  ‘I do understand that situation and your anxiety, Jeanne-Marie. But please try to see how I’m placed too. All right, Georges was under an obligation to help you, I’ve inherited that obligation, naturally I accept it. Also however I’ve inherited leadership of this group; there’s reason to believe matters may be coming to a head in the next few days, I’ve got to have these people equipped and able to play their part.’

  ‘Couldn’t make the big effort tonight?’

  ‘No. Not tomorrow either. We couldn’t, it’s out of the question. Believe me, physically impossible; and even if it were not – see, we’ve had one failure already, we can’t’ – shaking his head – ‘Jeanne-Marie, I’m sorry, but – look, I’ll tell you. Not where, but what.’ Glancing around, then whispering, ‘A Milice armoury. Everything we need is there. Also one thing we could do without – well-armed Miliciens protecting it and what’s more on the alert, on account of other things that have been going on. Not easy, eh? No. But the man organising it is a former senior NCO with battle experience from 1940, a police weapons instructor since then, leading men he’s personally selected – armed with Schmeissers and the long-handled grenades, and knowing exactly what they’re doing.’

  ‘Should have a chance, then.’

  ‘But couldn’t any sooner, for the simple reason he’s occupied elsewhere.’ Leblanc put a hand on one of hers. ‘Wednesday, Jeanne-Marie. If it’s a success tomorrow night I’ll have him here Wednesday and we’ll make plans. All right?’

  ‘Plans for that same night?’

  ‘If he agrees – yes.’

  ‘Meaning even that’s not certain!’

  ‘How long did you spend in Gestapo hands?’

  ‘This is quite different – doing nothing, while they—’

  ‘Jeanne-Marie, this may sound to you ridiculous, but I’d suggest you put it out of mind – at least, out of your imagination – until we can do something about it. Well, I’m sorry – lecturing again. But I’m talking facts, reality. Georges might have said yes, we’ll do it right away – but where is he now? Where’s Fécontel? Eh? What use is that?’

  ‘Writing them off, are we?’

  ‘Facing facts, is all. What can be done, and what can’t. Jeanne-Marie, how will you spend tomorrow?’

  ‘Biting my nails down to their quicks. How else?’

  ‘An alternative might be to take a ride on your bike around these various addresses. So when we’re talking with my military friend you’d have a picture of it.’

  ‘Not a bad idea…’

  ‘Keep you busy, too. But don’t be tempted to hang around in Rue des Saussaies.’ Yawning, and checking the time. ‘Just ride through, above all don’t make a study of number eleven.’

  ‘D’you treat all your pupils as if they were born yesterday?’

  ‘Speaking of pupils – that one there, now.’ Pointing with his head at Nico, the new barman. ‘His problem was always a reluctance to pay attention. He’d sit dreaming, one had to hit him over the head quite often. But why not take him with you – if Adée permits it? I’m sure you know Paris well enough, but he’d still be a help, he’s never been outside it. He’s a résistant, of course – and a bit of cover for you, as well as company – boy and girl on a day out, uh?’

  ‘My kid brother…’

  ‘If you like. But you don’t look so old, you know. Got a man of your own, have you’ – down to a murmur again – ‘over there?’

  She’d nodded. ‘When this is over we’ll be getting married.’

  ‘Lucky man! Soldier, is he?’

  ‘Sailor. Motor gunboats. He’s been wounded in action twice.’

  ‘Deserves you, then.’ Raising his voice: ‘Hey, Nico, here a minute?’

  The boy joined them, Leblanc made the suggestion and he jumped at it: smiling shyly at Rosie, then explaining, ‘Well, to get out into the sun and fresh air, a few hours…’ Starting in mid-morning, then, subject to Adée’s agreement, and giving Rosie a sight of Rue des Saussaies, the more extensive SD headquarters in Avenue Foch, also Rue Lauriston and Rue de la Pompe. Leblanc asked him whether he knew the Café Mas on Place des Ternes; it was much used by Lafont’s gang, he said, and there was a waiter by name of Charles Lerique to whom Nico might give Martin Leblanc’s regards and enquire after the man’s son Marcel, another former pupil. Lerique sometimes had items of interest to pass on; if it was possible to have any private conversation with him, Nico might say Martin Leblanc wondered how things were going, whether they were still getting a lot of business from one particular group of customers.

  ‘With what object, to ask this?’

  ‘He might tell you if he’d had wind of any move afoot. More of them than before, or fewer. It’s less than two kilometres from there to Lauriston or to La Pompe, after all, waiters do have ears and that one’s heart is in the right place – or used to be.’

  ‘All right.’

  ‘But only if it’s safe. And don’t push it, let him tell you if he wants to, and don’t utter a word if there are any of those animals around.’

  ‘All right.’

  Leblanc told Rosie, ‘I used to teach him history. Or try to.’ A shrug. ‘Now we’re helping to make it, eh?’

  ‘How did you get to know about that café?’

  ‘I’ve been associated with this Dénault crowd for some time. Three and a half years. And I suppose because I’m slightly more literate than most I drifted into being you might say the information/intelligence advisor, and… well, at one time we were working on the idea of planting a bomb on that terrace. Another group approached us on the subject – to kill Lafont himself was the idea, they felt they owed him nothing less – which was the truth and still is, in fact even more so; but we dropped it eventually because his comings and goings were so irregular and there was no way of ensuring innocent people weren’t killed. Listen, I’ll give you two telephone numbers at which you might get me if you needed to. If you got news of your friends, for instance. Two other numbers besides Adée’s here, that is. D’you have a good memory?’

  ‘Usually.’ She nodded. ‘If you’d write them down. I’ll memorise them, then tear it up.’ Groping in Leonie’s bag for paper and pencil. Leblanc adding, ‘And now I’m off for a few hours’ sleep. Might not see you before Wednesday, by the way. I’ll let Adée know what time.’

  ‘Wednesday morning, though?’

  ‘I expect so.’ He was jotting the numbers down. ‘Unless – again – a message with Adée—’
/>   ‘Don’t even think of putting it off!’

  ‘Let’s hope we don’t have to. Look at this, though.’ Showing her, under cover of the table’s edge, an arm-band, white with black lettering, the slogan in French ‘Live Free or Die’ – Vivre Libre ou Mourir. ‘For when we go into action. Like it?’

  ‘Carrying it around with you?’

  ‘Showed it to some of them at the Préfecture. When the time comes there’ll be thousands of these on the streets. Tuesday, though, Fernagut and his team will be wearing red ones. Commies will have done it, see?’

  ‘Any special reason?’

  ‘This half-baked truce. Reds don’t want it, and the Boches know that. We, on the other hand—’

  ‘You’re observing it?’

  ‘Using it, say.’ Folding the band back into his pocket. ‘Take care tomorrow, eh?’

  * * *

  She went to sleep quickly, and dreamed of Ben. Joan Stack was all over him, half naked; he was fending her off, shouting, ‘Could be she isn’t dead! Could be those drongoes got it wrong!’ Rosie chipping in then, telling him what SOE in Baker Street hadn’t had time to tell him: ‘They did have it wrong! Lise heard shots and assumed they’d killed me – and they thought they had, left me for dead – I was bloody dying – damn you, you bitch!’ Trying to drag the woman off him, but before she could get a grip on the sweat-slippery body she – it, La Stack – was on her feet and swaying around in a slinky low-cut dress in the arms of a man whose name Ben had mentioned but Rosie didn’t remember; they were in a hotel of somewhat dubious repute in the Sussex down-land, she’d come down from London to meet Ben for this dinner-dance and to spend the night with him in a four-poster – Ben’s gunboat being based at Newhaven then, in easy reach of this place, and his commanding officer – fellow-Australian, by name Bob Stack – had married Lady Joan, who’d been Ben’s bit of stuff before that and was now cheating on her husband with this rather supercilious character whose name in the dream escaped her. Rosie telling Ben, ‘She’ll always cheat with someone. If I was dead and you were daft enough to marry her she’d cheat on you. It’s how she’s wired, my darling!’

  ‘What if I get dead?’

  Ben’s Aussie voice – sudden and clear, its tone quite level, as if postulating an easily envisaged scenario. Rosie startled by it, moving her arms over the tumbled blankets and meeting nothing else – bedclothes in this state because in some vaguely remembered dream she’d been grappling with La Stack. Out of that now anyway: it had been only a dream. But what he’d just come up with – so close, so real – lying motionless in the dark, musty closeness, straining her ears for a sound of breathing other than her own – for his stronger, harder breaths. Then wide awake – but still with a need as it were to exorcise the lingering illusion: her own voice out loud in the darkness telling him, ‘I’ll be back in England before you will, probably Welcome you home.’

  * * *

  In the morning, she and the boy checked what would be their itinerary on the map before starting out. He’d arrived at the Dog at breakfast-time to help Adée with the various chores; Adée had told him to be back by mid-afternoon, she’d handle the lunchtime customers on her own.

  ‘Rue des Saussaies then, Nico.’

  A nod. ‘Left out of Place Pigalle into Rue Pigalle.’

  ‘Test your history. Who was Pigalle?’

  ‘A sculptor?’

  ‘You did learn a few things from him, then.’

  ‘He’s a good teacher.’

  ‘I believe you.’ They’d unchained their bikes. ‘Nico, you lead, eh? If you see me in any trouble – being stopped to show papers, anything like that – don’t turn back and involve yourself, take the next right turn and wait for me to join you.’

  ‘Any reason you might be stopped?’

  ‘No, but they’re unpredictable, aren’t they? If I see it happening to you I’ll keep going, pass you if they’ll let me, make a right turn and wait for you. All right?’

  ‘Sure, but—’

  ‘Best to have a plan, that’s all.’

  The only real danger if she was stopped and searched would be the pistol in what had been Léonie’s bag. With papers as good as Jeanne-Marie Lefèvre’s there was no reason one should be searched, but with résistants more or less in the open now – back-street barricades, seizures of weaponry, all that – there might be spot-check searches.

  From Rue de Clignancourt, right into Boulevard de Rochechouart and then 500–600 metres to Place Pigalle. Left there, into the road of the same name. It was a beautiful morning, the sun already hot and the traffic on the streets more or less normal. Nico riding about 30 yards ahead, glancing back from time to time: from here it was about a kilometre south-westward and down-slope, easy going into the Place de la Trinité, with the skyline ahead a frieze of towers and spires, familiar silhouettes against the blue, still slightly hazy background. Nico had looked back again and she’d waved to him: as always there were a lot of cyclists on the road, and in her drab raincoat she didn’t exactly stand out from the crowd. It might look a bit silly on such a sunny day, she realised; even Adée who wasn’t exactly a smart dresser had looked at it in surprise.

  Nico swinging right: Rosie following a few seconds later. Place de la Trinité. Leaving the church on their left, then trickling southward into Rue de Mogador: about 500 metres of that, but having to pause where it crossed Rue de Provence. Running up alongside Nico: ‘Hello, little brother.’

  ‘See that load of crap now…’

  A truckload of Miliciens: the open-topped vehicle barrelling down and swinging right into Boulevard Haussmann. The boy muttering, ‘Where’re they going, I wonder?’

  ‘Not our way, is it?’

  Shake of the head: ‘We go straight over. Rue Tronchet down to La Madeleine, then right.’

  ‘Oh yes…’

  ‘Now. Come on.’

  Over, and south along Tronchet into Place de la Madeleine, Nico ahead of her again and with a couple of gazos in between. All the way down – best part of a kilometre – and to the right then, around the top end of the Place; she was close behind him again by that time. Into Rue Royale, then right – St Honoré. Traffic was thicker here, and it was a considerable advantage to have a guide, not to have to rack one’s brains, take chances and make mistakes. Simple enough on this stretch, as it happened – west along Rue St Honoré into Place Beauvau, which the map had shown her was at the south-west end of Rue des Saussaies. As they’d planned it, they’d turn right into Saussaies and ride right through to its top end – which was the Place des Saussaies – then carry on westward towards l’Etoile.

  But they’d be doing no such thing.

  Not without being shot. Nico had looked back, waved and pointed ahead across the square, and she saw the reason for that now: Boche soldiers in grey-green uniforms and helmets, with slung rifles and grenades – the type Leblanc had mentioned, long wooden handles on them – hanging from their belts; they were guarding a barrier made of X-shaped supports, each pair linked by a single horizontal pole and festooned with barbed wire. Nico continuing westward across the Place and into that road, turning to the right 30–40 metres further on.

  He’d stopped not far from the corner, waiting for her to join him.

  She said, ‘Top end will be shut off too, won’t it?’

  He nodded. ‘And both the side-streets leading in. Would be, anyway I saw more Boches at the corner of Rue Montalivet.’

  ‘I wonder what for.’

  ‘Expecting an attack on number eleven? Thinking we might try to get ’em out?’

  ‘Could be.’ She shrugged. ‘Might go on and see Lauriston and the others – come back this way later?’

  A nod. ‘Might have lifted it by then.’ He nodded again: spotty face pink and damp-looking. ‘So – that way, down to Avenue des Champs-Elysées at the Rondpoint, to the right there, say a kilometre and a half – less – to l’Etoile, buzz most of the way around it and turn west into Rue Lauriston. Easy as pie. Then up to Rue de
la Pompe – and right on into Avenue Foch, OK?’

  ‘I’ll just follow my leader.’

  ‘Then Café Mas. From l’Etoile, Place des Ternes is – oh, five or ten minutes up l’Avenue de Wagram. By then we’ll be ready for a beer, uh?’

  * * *

  No. 93 Rue Lauriston was a well-kept, grey-faced, noticeably large house in an obviously expensive district. Four storeys tall, with a wide railed forecourt and – Leblanc had mentioned – a central garden, Spanish patio-style. Front door and steps leading down into the forecourt, though: presumably you could get in and out by way of the garden – she’d had a glimpse of that gated access – the gate undoubtedly kept locked and chained – but having to be quick to take in the rest of it, even just free-wheeling by fairly slowly. Noting the line of fourth-floor windows which had been servants’ rooms and Lafont was said to have converted into cells: there’d be contrastingly spacious, luxurious apartments on other floors. In even greater contrast of course, the cellars: from which one shied away even in imagination. The house next door, she’d been told, had been taken over as additional prisoner accommodation.

  Out of her sight back there now anyway; and she’d seen no movement or sign of human presence. Gates shut, and apparently unguarded. Might have turned back for a longer, closer look: did think of it – of crossing the road and joining the eastbound traffic; but she had a reasonably good impression of no. 93 in any case – like a slightly out-of-focus snapshot in her memory, and really there wasn’t so much one could see.

  Thinking again though of those top-floor rooms, and the cellar, the route down to it – a servants’ staircase at the back of the house, she guessed – and Lafont waiting down there with his whip.

  Clausen knowing all about it?

  Surely. As he’d also have known of hundreds of others, probably. Despite his disclaimer yesterday, ‘I have conducted interrogations… but where your imagination may run beyond that…’