“Good!” said Veronica. “I hope that bite Carlos gave him got infected and they had to chop off his leg. That might slow him down.”
“Wait, this is the Nazi officer who ordered the bombing of Montmaray?” said Toby, finally catching up. “What’s he doing here?”
“Trying to stop you, of course!” snapped Simon. “Seeing as you’re about to make a formal complaint about him to the League of Nations!”
“And Hitler wouldn’t want yet more evidence of German aggression being aired at this Council meeting,” said Veronica. “Not right now.”
“Perhaps Gebhardt wants more revenge,” I said shakily. Simon put a comforting arm around me, but it wasn’t much help. The sight of Gebhardt had kicked open a box of sickening memories that I’d thought I’d locked away forever.
“Well, he can’t stop the train, can he?” Toby said. “He can’t do anything now till we get to Paris, and what’s he going to do there, shoot me in cold blood in the middle of Gare du Nord?”
“You don’t know him!” I said, turning on Toby. “You didn’t meet him, you don’t know what he’s capable of!” And I couldn’t help thinking of poor dead Otto Rahn …
“Gebhardt’s utterly ruthless,” agreed Veronica, chewing her lip. “And he wasn’t in uniform. What if he works at the German Embassy in Paris? That might explain how he knew we’d be here. He must have got hold of the agenda for the Council meeting and guessed we’d take this train. And diplomats don’t have to follow local laws.”
“The police could refuse to arrest him,” said Simon. “Besides, he hasn’t done anything yet. It’s not illegal to try to catch a train.”
“What are we going to do?” I almost screamed. My rising panic was blocking all attempts at rational thought.
“Let’s move to another carriage, for a start,” said Veronica. “He saw which compartment we were in—let’s not make it any easier for him.”
We jumped up and made our way towards the back of the train as fast as the swaying corridors would allow. Veronica and I kept a nervous eye out for Nazis, but we didn’t spot any other familiar faces. Fortunately, the train was far from full, and we found an empty compartment in a second-class carriage. We huddled there together, glancing up anxiously at each passing footfall.
“Right,” said Simon in a low voice. “We need to figure out a plan. We arrive in Paris at Gare du Nord at about half past five. We’re supposed to take a taxi to another station, Gare de Lyon, and catch the southbound train to Geneva an hour later, but—”
“But that’s what they’ll be expecting us to do,” I said. My mind was suddenly, miraculously, clear. “I think we ought to split up as soon as the train stops in Paris. Much harder for them to chase after two groups. Simon, where are those train timetables?”
“Toby’s the important one,” Veronica reminded us as Simon and I examined the timetables. “He has to get to Geneva in time for the meeting at two o’clock tomorrow. It doesn’t matter if the rest of us are late or if we get—”
The carriage jolted and we all gasped, our gazes flying towards the window. But it was a stone on the tracks, or a splutter of the engine, nothing more ominous than that. The train gathered itself up and sped onwards. Outside the window lay the battlegrounds of the Somme, fields of white crosses and red poppies spread out over the shattered skeletons of a million soldiers. I could tell the others were thinking of the war, too—the last one as well as the one that was threatening to erupt at any moment. I forced myself to concentrate on the timetables in my lap.
“All right,” I said. “The Simplon Orient Express leaves Gare de Lyon at half past ten this evening. Veronica, you and Toby take that. It doesn’t go to Geneva, but it stops in Lausanne early tomorrow morning. How far is Lausanne from Geneva?”
“About forty miles, I think,” said Simon. “The Swiss are very efficient, it couldn’t be more than an hour or so by the local train. Or you could hire a car. I think they even have boats that travel down Lake Geneva.”
“You’ll be at the hotel in time for breakfast,” I said. “Don’t worry about waiting for your luggage when we get to Paris. Simon and I will manage that. Then we’ll catch the first train to Lyon we can find, and …” I peered at the timetables, but no immediate solution presented itself. “Well, it’s not far to the Swiss border from there. We might have to catch a train tomorrow morning. We’ll meet you at the Palais des Nations in time for the afternoon session of the Council.”
And to my amazement, the first part of the plan worked beautifully. My wild and fearful imagination had conjured images of Gebhardt blocking the railway tracks with his car, flinging grenades at the engine driver, even landing a Nazi parachutist on the roof of our carriage, but the Flèche d’Or slid unhindered into Gare du Nord at exactly 5:35 p.m., right on time. The instant the train came to a halt, Toby and Veronica hurled themselves out onto the platform and raced off towards the exit, almost bowling over a startled porter. I could only pray the Orient Express wasn’t booked out, and that they’d manage to get tickets for that evening. Meanwhile, Simon and I took our time gathering up our possessions. We were the last passengers to step down from the carriage, having carefully scanned the platform first.
“I’m pretty sure the train from Calais is faster than any car,” said Simon. “Although if Gebhardt is a diplomat, he’s free to ignore the usual road rules.”
“He could have telephoned ahead and arranged to have someone waiting here in Paris for us,” I pointed out. I kept a tense watch as Simon collected our luggage, engaged a porter, found a taxi, and got us and the bags into it. Then we sped off down Boulevard de Magenta, Simon and I whipping our heads back and forth to see if anyone was following us.
“But, really, it makes more sense that Gebhardt would have told any accomplice of his to go straight to Gare de Lyon,” said Simon. “All the Switzerland-bound trains depart from there.”
“Oh, so we’re driving directly into an ambush? That’s such a comfort to know,” I said crossly. The heat was stifling, my neck hurt from all the frantic head-turning, and not only was Gebhardt trying to kill us (or at least delay us in some extremely unpleasant Nazi manner), but he had ruined my first glimpse of Paris. One of the most beautiful and important cities in the world, and I was too anxious to take it in properly. I did see the top of the Eiffel Tower, somewhere off to my right, and the taxi driver pointed out the place where the Bastille had stood. But, all at once, we were there, at Gare de Lyon.
“You wait here while I go in and find out about the trains to Lyon,” Simon said. “Gebhardt might recognize you—”
“We want him to recognize me!” I whispered back (because the driver was starting to give us very suspicious looks by then). “We have to draw him away from Toby and Veronica! They might still be in there, buying their train tickets!”
And I heaved my bag up and stomped off towards the station entrance while Simon was still fumbling through his wad of francs to pay the driver. I was so annoyed by that stage that I almost hoped I would encounter Gebhardt—perhaps I could drop my bag on his good foot and completely cripple him. The bag weighed a ton, because I hadn’t been able to decide between several outfits, and I’d brought along Les Misérables (to read) and my mother’s still-undeciphered diary (for luck). I plunked myself and the bag down near the doorway and peered around the station. Nothing. A few minutes later, Simon arrived, looking hot and bothered.
“Well?” he said.
“Not a sign of anyone,” I said. “Friend or foe.”
“There’s a train to Lyon in thirty-five minutes,” said Simon. “Here’s your ticket, in case we get separated. Let’s go and have a drink—there’s a café over there.”
Still no one appeared. Our train arrived; we boarded one of the rather shabby carriages, shoved our bags in the luggage rack, and sat down on the thinly padded bench. It was only after the train had begun to rattle off that I caught sight of our nemesis running onto the platform, looking in quite the wrong direction. I wrenched up t
he window, thrust my head out, and screamed, “Hello, Herr Gebhardt!” For good measure, I took off my hat and waved it at him.
“What are you doing?” exclaimed Simon, yanking me back inside.
“Luring him away from Toby and Veronica,” I said, watching with great satisfaction as Gebhardt and his red-haired colleague started huffing and puffing along the platform after us. They came to the end of the platform, grew smaller, then vanished from our sight. “Gosh, it’s just not his day for catching trains, is it?”
“You do realize that this is the slow train?” said Simon, sounding thoroughly exasperated. “He’ll simply get back in his high-speed Mercedes-Benz and chase after us till we stop at some little town, then he’ll storm on board and—”
“He only knows Veronica and me,” I said. “He might have seen a photograph of Toby, but he doesn’t know you at all. I think the two of us have a very good chance of getting away.”
“Well, let’s find somewhere else to sit,” Simon said, raking his hand through his hair in agitation. “And do something to change your appearance.”
We finally settled on the last carriage as the safest place. “There’s a baggage car on the end—we can hide in there,” said Simon, looking down the corridor.
“And we’re right beside the doors,” I said. “We can jump out onto the tracks if we have to.” I’d taken off my jacket and hat, and hidden my hair under a scarf of Veronica’s. “You keep an eye on that window, I’ll take this one.”
The train made several stops, more passengers getting off than on, but there was no sign of our pursuers. “Where are we now?” I asked.
“God knows,” said Simon, peering out the grimy window. “I feel as though we’ve been traveling for days.” The sun was slowly sinking, a blazing ball in an orange sky, but it didn’t feel any cooler. The window beside me refused to budge, and the carriage was stifling. The atmosphere wasn’t helped any by the ancient gentleman sitting opposite us, puffing away at a foul-smelling pipe. I leaned against the window, fighting my drowsiness with decreasing success. The train slowed down again … Another town appeared, then receded … The gentleman picked up his moth-eaten carpetbag and shuffled off down the corridor, to be replaced by a pair of old ladies in black dresses with white lace collars …
Suddenly Simon swore.
“It’s them!” he hissed.
Instantly awake, I stared out the window. Gebhardt was talking to the guard at the front of the train, and the red-haired soldier was running down the platform, towards the last door of the last carriage—towards us! Cutting off our escape route, stopping us from getting to the baggage car!
“Quick, put your arms around me,” said Simon.
“What?”
As the door to our carriage was flung open, Simon pushed me into the corner of our compartment and covered my body with his. One of his hands turned my face towards his, and I instinctively clutched at his shoulder, my other arm going round his waist. To anyone passing by, we were young lovers, overcome with passion on a sultry summer’s evening. At least, I hoped that’s what we resembled. My face pressed to Simon’s neck, my heart hammering even faster than his rapid pulse, I heard the stomp, stomp, stomp of boots along the wooden floor. The noise ceased, mere yards from us.
“Don’t look,” murmured Simon into my ear. I could feel the tension in all the muscles of his back.
The boots made a scraping sound. Was the man turning for a closer look at us? Then the footsteps started up again—moving away from us, towards the front of the train. A door slammed. Simon shifted his weight slightly, trying to look out the window. There were angry shouts from the next carriage—in French, not German. There was a thud and a series of heavy, rapid footfalls.
“Is that … ?” I whispered. Was Gebhardt on board now? There was no way we’d fool him. We braced ourselves, waiting for the blow to fall.
There was another thump. I heard the guard’s voice and then a shrill whistle.
“They’re both back on the platform!” said Simon. The engine groaned, and heaved itself forward. There was the sound of raised voices—the stationmaster yelling at the Nazis.
“Thank God the French hate the Germans even more than we do,” said Simon. “Gebhardt probably thinks we left the train at the first stop.”
“Right,” I said rather breathlessly. “Well, you can get off me now.”
“Oh, sorry,” he said, doing so at once. I sat up and adjusted my scarf, which had become somewhat disarranged during our … entanglement. I wasn’t sure if the experience counted as my first kiss (there had been some accidental lip contact), but it had certainly been exciting. Just not in the way I’d always hoped. It hadn’t even been very private—the two elderly ladies were now gazing at us with great interest. I felt myself turning scarlet. One of them said something to me in rapid French.
“Er,” I said. “Excusez-moi. Je ne comprends pas …”
They giggled and shot Simon sly looks, and one of them patted me on the knee. Then they offered us grapes and some little seedcakes from one of their many baskets. I gathered that they thought we’d eloped, that Gebhardt was my father or the red-haired man my abandoned fiancé. It was quite embarrassing, but the cakes were excellent, and I was starving by then. They asked where we were headed and gave us detailed directions for finding a hotel in Lyon that their nephew owned. Half an hour more of amiable (although rather muddled) conversation, and then they gathered up their baskets and departed, fondly wishing us bon voyage and winking at me behind Simon’s back. A further half an hour, and Simon and I arrived at our destination. Not Geneva, unfortunately, just Lyon, and when we checked, we found there wasn’t a train to Switzerland until eight o’clock the next morning.
“It’s just as well, really,” I confessed. “I don’t think I could face another couple of hours on a train.”
“Nor could I,” said Simon. “Shall we try that hotel the ladies recommended?”
This proved to be fairly clean and within our budget, and (after further confusion, due to the hotel manager believing we actually were newlyweds) we were shown two tiny rooms connected by a door. We had a hasty wash in the bathroom down the corridor, then followed the manager’s directions to a bouchon around the corner. This was exactly as I’d imagined little restaurants in France to be—red wallpaper, flickering candle-light, a tangle of dark bentwood chairs and tiny tables, a mustachioed waiter polishing glasses behind the bar.
“Très romantique,” said Simon. “Perfect for a couple on their honeymoon.”
I kicked him under the table. “Stop it,” I said, trying to read the menu in the dim light. “What’s ‘andouillette’?”
“Sausages made from pork tripe.”
“Oh. Then I think I’ll have the salade Lyonnaise. And coq au vin.”
The waiter brought us bread and a jug of water, then poured me a large glass of red wine before I could stop him. I was afraid it might be some terrible breach of French dining etiquette to ignore it, so I had a sip, and it was all right. But the food was superb. I really think the chef could have made even pork tripe taste divine. And it wasn’t at all expensive, not compared to London restaurants. The glorious meal was almost enough to make me forget our troubles—almost, but not quite.
“Do you think Veronica and Toby have enough money?” I asked. “Simon, what if Gebhardt drove straight back to Paris? What if he waited at the station there, in case we’d doubled back, and then he saw Veronica and Toby?”
“I doubt he’d want to loiter around that station for another couple of hours, after the day he’d had,” said Simon. “And even if he did, there wouldn’t be much he could do on a busy platform. I’d like to see him try to drag Veronica off somewhere quietly. She’d raise absolute hell—and Toby speaks excellent French, he’d soon get all the guards and passengers on their side.”
“But it’s so awful, not knowing where they are,” I said. “If only someone would invent telephones that we could carry around with us! Then Veronica could telephone
us to say they were all right. Or we could telephone her …”
“They should train pigeons to track certain people,” Simon said. “Then we could carry the birds around, inside special pockets in our jackets, and send the birds off with messages whenever we needed. You ought to get your suitor working on it.”
I tried to kick Simon under the table again and missed, possibly because I’d finished my glass of wine by then. (I hadn’t been certain I liked red wine, not at first, but it seemed to improve with each mouthful.) “Stop making fun of Rupert,” I said sternly. “If it weren’t for him, we wouldn’t even have got this far today! There’s nothing wrong with being wonderful with animals. Also, pigeons are extremely clever, so you shouldn’t make fun of them, either. But anyway …” I frowned. “What was I saying?”
“How much have you had to drink?” asked Simon.
“I don’t know. I think the waiter refilled my glass when I wasn’t looking. Oh, yes—Rupert! Well, he’s not my suitor. I like him very, very much, he’s awfully sweet, but I don’t feel … I just don’t feel romantic about him.”
“Good,” said Simon, pouring me a glass of water. “Because I think you could do a lot better, as far as husbands go.”
“Why does everyone keep telling me not to marry him?” I cried, throwing up my hands. “When we haven’t the slightest interest in getting married to each other!”
“Shh,” said Simon. “Drink your water. Otherwise you’ll have a horrible headache tomorrow.”
“I already have a headache,” I muttered. “From being forced to think about marriage all the time. Simon, who are you going to marry?”
I think I may have been a little bit drunk, after all. But Simon only laughed.
“I’m afraid I’m not much of a catch. No money and no title.”
“That’s true,” I conceded. “But you’re clever and hardworking. And moderately good-looking.”
“Why, thank you.”
“Only moderately,” I said, which was a lie. Every woman in the room, and at least one of the men, had been eyeing Simon, on and off, all evening. I glared at his most persistent admirer, a stylish brunette in the corner, then turned back to him. “Simon?”
The FitzOsbornes in Exile Page 32