As if there’d ever been an SD interrogation – of an uncooperative prisoner – without torture, or at least threat of death, or without the prisoner being handed over for torture or execution. Clausen a Pontius Pilate, hand on heart: ‘Me, do anything like that?’
For Jacqui’s benefit, she guessed. Enabling Jacqui to continue thinking of him as a kind man.
Or at least professing to. She’d said, when Rosie had asked whether he was kind, ‘In himself, he is.’ Meaning – if it meant anything at all – ‘to me, he is’. Allowing for there being areas and circumstances in which he might be extremely unkind, but which didn’t concern her, from which therefore she remained aloof?
‘I don’t know anything!’
So much nicer not to…
Up Rue Boissière to Place Victor Hugo: recognising that at the lunch yesterday she’d come close to being fooled into accepting Clausen’s vision of himself as an Intelligence Officer pure and simple, nothing to do with whips or cellars or cattle-trucks to Büchenwald… Around this road-junction, though, and out of it westward. A few hundred metres, then a sharp turn to the right. Rue de la Pompe. Nico signalling to her that he was slowing – stopping – on this side, 20 metres ahead. Dismounting as she braked in behind him and dismounted too.
‘Brake’s jamming on the front wheel. That’s my story. See the house right opposite?’
‘Is that it?’
‘Is indeed. This’ll give you a minute or two, but don’t look too hard.’
A thickset, maybe shaven-headed man came to the closed gateway and stared across at them. There was other traffic passing, but not much. She propped her bike against the kerb and stooped close to Nico to see what he was doing.
‘We’re being looked at.’
‘Yeah. And there’s a Renault van parked in there – petrol, not gazo. Bonny-Lafont vehicle, therefore. See what you need to see, don’t take too long at it.’
She straightened, checking the time on what had been Marilyn Stuart’s watch. Shrugging, her body-language indicating to the watcher that this delay was unwelcome. He was still there, still watching. The house was cream-coloured, with grey surrounds to its windows and a slate roof instead of tiles: other respects in which it differed from 93 Rue Lauriston were a narrower frontage, only four instead of eight small windows on that top floor – only three floors, in fact.
Facing away from the man at the iron gates, she murmured, ‘When you’re ready, Nico.’
‘Yeah. Should be OK.’ He’d straightened, and she turned quickly as if relieved that he’d fixed it. Both preparing to mount then, Rosie pushing Léonie’s bag back behind her hip and letting him start first: Nico peering down at his front wheel, pumping the brake on and off as he got going, calling back to her after a few yards, ‘OK. Come on.’ With so much foliage on the inside of those railings you couldn’t see much at ground-floor level – other than the van, a black Renault, parked on the driveway inside the gates, and the upper parts of windows, entrance door dead centre. The man was watching them leave: open-neck khaki shirt, greenish army trousers pushed into knee-high boots, pudgy face. Not shaven-headed – that must have been an effect of sunlight, he had shiny, slicked-back brownish hair. Not one of the two she’d seen before – who might have recognised her, which might not have been so good…
Riding on, following Nico, conscious of escaping a twofold danger – to themselves, conceivably, but also to the prisoners inside – if their gaolers suspected outside interest in them. They were in there – in those top rooms. It might have been only that man’s watchful, threatening presence that had told her so, but that was the place, she knew it.
Chapter 14
She was excited at having located them, although the rest of the trip was an anticlimax: 82 to 86 Avenue Foch, former SD headquarters obviously now untenanted, and at the Café Mas, where they had bread and goat-cheese with their beers, the waitress told them that Monday was Charles Lerique’s day off and he’d as like as not have gone fishing. There’d been no one there who looked anything like a gangster or gestapist. Then on the way back to Montmartre they found Rue des Saussaies still cordoned off.
Leblanc had to be told about that, anyway. Might know already – most likely would – but she wanted to tell him about Rue de la Pompe as well. Having admittedly no real evidence to offer, only her personal conviction – intuition, one might call it – but since he’d accepted that they were almost certainly in one or other of the Bonny-Lafont houses, he surely wouldn’t mind being told he could forget Rue Lauriston and concentrate on that one.
Her business, anyway. She was so to speak the client.
Back at the Dog, putting the chains on their bikes, she thanked Nico for his help. He smiled, countered with, ‘Thank you for the lunch.’ Then: ‘Did you see all you wanted?’
‘More than I expected.’
‘Solved the problem?’
‘I think so. Yes.’
‘Rue de la Pompe, eh?’
‘Is that your impression too?’
He nodded. ‘Something there, all right.’
‘So it’s not just me.’ She patted his arm. ‘Thank you again, Nico.’
There were no customers inside, but there had been; Adée was washing up.
‘Hah.’ A glance at the clock. ‘I get my slave back.’ A nod to Nico; then to Rosie, ‘Any use, was it?’
‘Yes – I think so. Use your ’phone?’
* * *
The first of Leblanc’s numbers rang unanswered, and at the second a woman offered to give him a message if he came in later. She didn’t sound like a wife; in fact Rosie didn’t even know that he had one. She left no message, anyway; hung up, told Adée, ‘No luck. Would that have been his wife I spoke to?’
‘Who knows? But whoever, you could have asked for him to call back.’
‘I might not be here. And not knowing who that was—’
‘Give me a message for him, then if he does call – huh?’
‘Thanks, but I’ll try again later. Rather like to talk to him myself.’
‘So what’ll you do now? Go to the house, take a nap?’
‘Might take a walk. How would I get up to Sacré Coeur, for instance?’
‘Well, I’ll show you. Nico, you’ll hold the fort, uh? Yes, that’s a good idea. Quite a climb, mind you – no electricity, funicular’s not working of course.’
Adée went out into the alley with her, ostensibly to point her in the right direction. Advising her meanwhile, ‘From the Sacré Coeur terrace you have all of Paris to the south, but if you have strength left you can go in and climb to the top of the dome – see even further, and in all directions… Don’t mind going by yourself?’
‘Should I?’
‘I could spare Nico for another hour or even two hours, you see.’
‘Thank you very much, but—’
‘There’s all sorts around, you know. With the gendarmes on strike, uh? When I’m on my own, I can tell you, I keep that door locked!’
‘It wasn’t locked just now.’
‘Maybe not, just that one time. But you be careful.’
‘I will.’ She smiled. ‘I can look after myself, Adée.’
‘Oh, I’m sure, but—’
‘Anyway—’
‘May I ask you something?’ Guarded look around and behind them. ‘Is it true you’re English?’
So that was why she’d wanted to have her to herself. Rosie asked her, ‘Did Leblanc tell you so?’
‘No, Georges. In great confidence, naturally. He was explaining – after you’d blown in, complete stranger asking for him by name—’
‘Did he tell anyone else, or only you?’
‘Well – Patrice was with us.’ The old woman’s damp hand clutching Rosie’s elbow, as if steering her around the curve of the alleyway, ‘Georges told me don’t breathe a word. Don’t worry. Neither he nor Patrice would ever—’
‘I’m sure not.’
Patrice and Georges being in 11 Rue des Saussaies now. Home of th
e whips, straps, chains, rubber truncheons and pliers. That game of theirs in which they brought you to within seconds of drowning in a bath of cold water, repeating the same action over and over again: on your back in the tub, your head pushed under and held there. Head up then: ‘Talk? No?’ Under again. In Rouen, that was one of the games they’d played. Another was where they made you kneel on the sharp edge of a shovel’s blade and a heavyweight assistant stood on the handle end so that the blade pushed up into the sinew below the kneecap. And of course the pièce de résistance, the pliers. For men it was often the testicles they went for, one had heard.
She said again, ‘I’m sure not.’
‘You can count on it. But – that’s the truth, is it, you are?’
She nodded. Horse having bolted, stable door wide open. ‘I have an English mother and I’ve lived in England since I was twelve, when my father died. But I was born and brought up in France – he was French, and if I’d had any say in it I’d have stayed here.’
‘But one can understand, your mother being alone then—’
‘I don’t mean there’s anything about England I don’t like. It’s just that I had a happy childhood and I adored my father. But I’m used to England now – I am English, yes. I have an uncle I’m very fond of, and cousins…’ Ahead, a rectangular slab of sunlight was the alley’s emergence into Rue de Clignancourt. ‘Adée, don’t tell another soul I’m English. Please, absolutely no one? Georges should have kept his trap shut.’
‘Ah, poor Georges…’
* * *
She found the steps at the head of Rue de Steinkerque, off Rochechouart, and climbed. She’d been up here with her father, she remembered – mainly for the view, which Ben too had mentioned in dissertations on his Parisian days. She took Adée’s advice, first checking out the southerly aspect from the terrace, then going inside and climbing to the top of the dome from where she tried to pick out Rue de la Pompe. But – 5 or 6 kilometres away, she guessed, that straight-line view: even if one had had a telescope… Visualising the house, though, and those two inside it; and in frustrating contrast, herself like some gawping tourist. The sense of impatience was going to be worse tonight – knowing precisely where now, and having to just sit around…
She came down from the dome and crossed over to the church of St Pierre de Montmartre, only a few yards away and not only older than Sacré Coeur but one of the most ancient churches in Paris. Her father had brought her here too. She couldn’t remember the particular features he’d wanted her to see, but had an idea that there were parts of some even older church incorporated in the structure. She hadn’t the expertise to find them, though, and was disinclined to ask; it had something to do with her father – or rather with his absence: she didn’t want the information from any lesser person. On impulse, on her way out, she slid into a pew and knelt to pray; not that in recent times she’d been all that convinced of the efficacy of prayer, but in a place of such antiquity where over the centuries millions must have cried for help of one kind or another – and feeling she needed any that might be on offer. Less for herself – as she’d told Adée, she could look after that – than for Léonie and Rouquet, Georges and company, and finally – additionally – for Ben. Whatever he was up to. Please, bring him safe home?
Adding in her mind as she left the old church. And let me be there too, and with him for ever after?
Surprised at herself: yielding to that impulse which at any rate to her was indicative of some sense of insecurity – when no obvious threat existed… And twenty minutes later, rubber-necking around the Place du Tertre – which to all intents and purposes was a village square still, with shady trees in the middle, small beamed house-fronts and café-bars all around – she was still… well, on edge, for no good reason: reminding herself that if it was security she wanted she could have stayed in Sevenoaks as a shift-working wireless-operator – which was what she had been before her husband Johnny had been killed and she’d volunteered for training as an agent.
And met Ben. Then not seen him for a year and a half, and run into him again – thank God.
Frustration accounted for most of this. Impatience. She needed to snap out of it, take a grip. He’d have told her that.
‘Yes, Miss?’
‘D’you have apricot?’
The girl took a bottle of it from the shelf behind her; there were several vacant tables out there, and one of them was actually in the shade. Rosie paid and took the drink out with her; that table was still unoccupied.
A fat man in a badly fitting suit and a greasy-looking soft hat stopped – at the sight of her, it seemed – and stared. Rosie sipping at her juice, ignoring him, watching sparrows pecking around for crumbs. The man shrugged, half-smiling at her, and shuffled inside. She considered leaving the drink and moving on, disappearing before he came out: it was the smirk that bothered her, for some reason. Recollection of Adée’s warning too, of course; but she was hot and thirsty and her legs were tired, and she had time to kill, and – the hell with him, she could look after herself.
A minute or two later, hearing him coming back out – hearing and sensing it – she sat still, waiting for him to join her. Which he did – setting a half-litre of pale, fizzy beer down on her table, and pulling back one of the other chairs.
‘Permettez?’
‘No. There are other tables, look.’
He sat down. Small piggy eyes, and a pencil-thin moustache under a wide, flat nose. If she got up and moved to another table it wouldn’t get rid of him, he’d follow. Anyway, what harm – apart from nuisance? If she did need help there were people at nearby tables, and a constant stream of passers-by.
Thinking about needing help again, for Pete’s sake…
He drank some beer, put the glass down, asked her, ‘Day off from work?’
‘Please leave me alone!’
‘Cigarette?’
‘No, thank you.’
She’d have loved one. He murmured, ’Résistante?’
‘What are you – an informer?’
‘You insult me, mam’selle!’
‘That might be difficult. Just go away, will you?’
‘All right. All right.’ A finger pointing: ‘How much money d’you have in that?’
In Léonie’s bag. She had the strap over her shoulder and her hand on the bag itself where it hung beside her chair.
She pulled it on to her lap now. The people who’d been at the nearest table had chosen this moment at which to leave; the pair beyond them, she saw, had gone as well. She could see the foursome who’d been at this nearer one moving off across the square, through the area of shade on that side of the trees. He was leaning closer: ‘Show me. Turn it out. Otherwise – see this?’
Glitter of a knife in that pudgy-looking hand. He was close enough by now to grab or slash or both. Probably both. He was flabby, sure, but he’d have the weight to smother her and wrench the bag away. He’d want her money first, then any other valuables, she guessed. Rings, her watch, ration cards – especially clothing coupons. She supposed the old raincoat made her look down-at-heel, an easy mark. That, and being about a third his size: and the fact – which she realised too, suddenly – that nine people out of ten weren’t likely to take the slightest bloody notice, or involve themselves in this kind of thing. All it might achieve if she screamed for help – well, it would virtually oblige him to go for her with the knife – clasp-knife, blade about 4 inches long.
There were several things she could have done. She decided on the easiest. Sliding her right hand into the bag, not in any way surreptitiously, letting him see her do it. Resignedly: ‘Money you want, is it?’
‘And quick. Gimme your purse.’
‘Or how about this?’
The Beretta – in her hand, at the table’s edge. She’d racked a shell into its breech in the course of bringing it up and he’d have heard that, would know this was for real, the short barrel aimed at the bridge of his nose from a distance of about 18 inches. He’d flung hi
mself back, jarring the table and slopping both drinks. Mouth open, small eyes stretched wide, fixed not on her but on the stubby little gun. She would have shot him if his reaction had been to go for her instead of recoiling as he had, and she’d have got away with it all right, she thought, nobody would have interfered – one glance back with the gun still in her hand as she walked away was all it would have taken. She told him evenly, ‘Fold the knife and put it on the table.’ Watching him do it – fumbling, shaking. ‘Now take your glass inside, stand at the counter and don’t turn. Go now. Don’t think I wouldn’t shoot – it would give me pleasure. Stay in there at least ten minutes – because if I see you again—’
He’d gone. She finished the fruit juice before she left.
* * *
At the Dog, Adée and Nico were already busy, Adée at her stove and Nico around the bar. Adée called to her, ‘Did you get up there all right?’
‘Sure did. What a view! What’s your news?’
‘Mine – none, but Nico has a message for you.’
‘Right.’ There were only four or five customers at this stage. She went to the bar, where Nico was pouring beers; he nodded to her. ‘I’ll be right with you. Get you something?’
‘Any Cognac today?’
‘Cognac, this early?’
After that, she thought, she might have a ‘coffee’ and take a long time over it. She was a lot less on edge now, but it was still early and it was going to be a long evening, maybe a sleepless night in anticipation of tomorrow. Excitement at the prospect of finally doing something…
Nico brought her glass of brandy, and sat down beside her.
‘I’ve put it on the slate. Run all the way up there, did you?’
‘Of course. And down again. Adée said you had some message.’
‘Martin Leblanc on the ’phone. Said he’d guessed it might be you that called. I told him about Rue des Saussaies being shut off – he knew it, didn’t know what for – and how you and I both reckoned Rue de la Pompe was the right address. I said it like that, quick, but he caught on, said, “Good, tell her we’ll talk about it when we meet.”’
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