Jacques had commented, when she’d put her enciphering material away and they’d been starting off, ‘You and André had plenty to gas about?’
She’d been lighting a cigarette, she remembered: flicking the match away and waving goodbye to Trainel, that comment meanwhile triggering an inclination to tell him what they’d talked about; but she’d suppressed it, told him instead: ‘SOE business. Putting loose ends together, that’s all.’
‘I got the feeling you didn’t like him and he knew it.’
Exhaling a plume of smoke… ‘You’re astute as well as observant, Jacques. But oddly enough I rather thought you didn’t either. Like him, I mean.’
‘Well.’ A smile. ‘Wouldn’t admit to it en famille, you understand.’
‘Colette’s fond of him, you mean.’
‘I told you about Joe Lambert – and his wife. André used to make sheep’s eyes at Colette, too, but—’
‘Wouldn’t have got him anywhere. No, you said.’
‘But to her, the seigneur’s son – romantic young spark, you know… All I thought of that was what a young fool he was. With Huguette it was different. She was a smasher, absolutely, and barely thirty – about André’s age – while Joe was twenty years older – and as decent a man as you’d ever meet.’
‘You said you thought she’d have been arrested as well as her husband. Do you have any reason to believe it?’
‘No. I don’t even know where or when they bagged him – just that he – you know, didn’t turn up again. But they tend to make a clean sweep, don’t they – and use the threat to one of them to make the other talk, eh? One’s heard of it… Physical threat to the beautiful young wife with the tormented husband looking on, for example. Doesn’t bear thinking about, does it?’
‘But only supposition…’
It stirred the other supposition too, though – that Lambert might have been sold out by the man who’d originally recruited him. She’d been tempted to float that with Jacques: in the same breath giving him some insight into her view of André, with the underlying purpose of having him firmly on her side in any awkward situations that might arise in that area. Since this was very much André’s home ground, his supporters including le patron and virtually the whole village – including Colette – and now one might guess Emile Guichard and others.
She liked Jacques; and sensed that the liking was reciprocated. He had the same kind of integrity, her instincts told her, that she’d found and respected in an agent code-named ‘Romeo’ – in Rouen, more than a year ago. A Mauritian, whom she’d seen shot dead in the glare of floodlights. But the reason she’d restrained herself from giving Jacques any of that background – ‘Hector’’s – was that it was private SOE business – especially now – and if André happened to come to grief at some point and she happened to be anywhere near at the time…
Marilyn’s advice or warning, in that van on the Xanadu field: her emphatic ‘Extreme discretion, Rosie…’
High-pitched Morse in the earphones: Sevenoaks on the air, having given her a few minutes’ grace, perhaps deliberately; she mightn’t have been ready right on the minute… Left hand adjusting volume, the other with a pencil poised then moving swiftly, jotting down the letters as they came bleeping in. Not a lot of them – it was a much shorter message than she’d sent them. She’d got it all – end of message, and the operator over there signing off. Rosie switched off too, slid the headset off, took out the night-time crystal and then pulled in the aerial, coiling the thin wire on the card as it came in. Transceiver back under the bed then: and now the paperwork, translation of cipher into plain text.
Your second message received and understood. Jupiter cancelled, repeat Jupiter cancelled. Maquis action heartily endorsed, but extreme caution is urged in respect of Hector.
Extreme discretion, now extreme caution. Leaving one in little doubt as to who’d drafted that message. Smiling to herself, hearing Marilyn’s slightly authoritarian tone of voice in the night’s surrounding silence. Light off: curtains and window open: back into bed – and glad to be there – but in her mind suddenly, in reference to that advice, whether in the confrontation in the forest this afternoon she should have been more cautious than she had been.
Except that he’d have seen through it. All right, the stuff about the sister’s arrest and André being conned into thinking it was only his involvement with the escape line they’d been on to – that had had a ring of truth to it – which she’d acknowledged and actually had believed. Although thinking about it again now, she wondered if he could have gone on being fooled for the best part of three months thereafter. He wasn’t a stupid man. And wouldn’t he have known about at least some of the arrests that had been made during that time, and linked them to his own movements or dispositions? Seeing that even Baker Street had known of them – Baker Street notably in the person of Bob Hallowell, who moreover must have had exchanges with ‘Hector’ about those disasters and the allegations which by then were being made against him. By Joseph Lambert? Countered by ‘Hector’ with his own artfully shamefaced admission of having seduced this fellow agent’s girlfriend (calculated to seem more innocuous than ‘wife’), said agent then making these allegations out of nothing but malicious jealousy, but ending up paying with his life – maybe also his young wife’s – for having told Baker Street the truth?
In the clearing, anyway, she’d swallowed André’s version of the story. Which had been the best thing to do, she thought. Indicative of readiness to believe, absence of prejudice. In contrast to which she’d been forthright – hostile – in areas where anyone who’d been at the receiving end of it – in Rue des Saussaies, especially – would have felt she had a score to settle.
Maybe, she thought, should have pressed it harder. For instance, his having fed her the stuff about armies bogged down and doodlebugs devastating England, and his explanation that everything he’d said was being recorded – she hadn’t asked him whether he couldn’t have signalled to her that it was cock-and-bull and he was acting under duress. Even just winked, or made faces. They’d been alone in the room, he surely could have. Or – re the period after Claire’s arrest when he’d thought he was ‘running rings around them’ and feeling good about it: even if he had been fooling them, he most certainly should have told Baker Street what was going on. It would have ended there and then, they’d have pulled him out and a number of agents’ lives would have been saved. She hadn’t raised this – there and then, shamingly, she hadn’t seen it – but it was certainly a key factor. In Baker Street’s judgement, would be enough to finish him. That alone… All in all, the adjective ‘specious’ might have been more appropriate than ‘plausible’, in the postscript to her message.
Time to stop thinking, get back to sleep. Busy day tomorrow: busy night, for sure. She didn’t know what part she’d be playing, only that they’d be meeting in the timber-yard behind the church and the Hôtel Poste at eleven. It would be dark by then, and curfew started at ten, but Jacques had said he’d get her there. She pulled the bedclothes up higher, shut her eyes. Trying to doze off, letting her thoughts drift without direction, but instead of counting sheep visualizing black-painted aircraft touching down by moonlight on remote pastures, dropping off agents who were then followed to towns and cities where they, and whoever they contacted, would be arrested – or marked down for arrest after some period of observation and identification of other contacts. She was awake, wide awake, staring into darkness and hearing André’s voice in the clearing a few hours earlier: You’re interrogator, judge and jury, evidently…
There was fourth role he hadn’t mentioned.
* * *
Jacques’ intention had been to catch Monsieur Henri on his way by in the morning, to make arrangements about the keys, but while they were breakfasting the telephone rang, Colette went to answer it, and Jacques murmured to Rosie, ‘Le patron – I bet you. Ants in his pants.’
‘If so, it’ll be the second time—’
‘Bet y
ou. It’s how he is.’ Nodding towards the sound of Colette hanging up the phone and now returning: ‘See if I’m wrong now.’
‘Monsieur Henri—’
‘Huh!’
‘He says the Briard woman hasn’t been into his end of the house since our fracas with her yesterday. He’d like after all to come to some arrangement with you, Justine. I said I thought Jacques might take you along before Monsieur Henri leaves for work – since you want to see him anyway, Jacques.’
Checking the time… ‘Yes. All right.’
‘Why don’t I go on my own?’ Rosie had just about finished. ‘Borrow Yvette’s bike again? I could ask him about bringing the keys this evening – anything else?’
‘The keys, yes – but not ask, tell him he mustn’t fail us. Other than that, all he needs to know is we’re doing it tonight. Oh, and tell him I’ve been thinking how to get the keys back to him, we’ll talk about it when he brings them.’
‘Might collect them from us here on his way by in the morning?’
‘Wouldn’t care to rely on it. The village may be full of Boches by then. Don’t know what the state of affairs may be. If he couldn’t get here, and didn’t have his keys—’
‘He’d have problems.’
‘Might have, mightn’t he? But one other thing – ask him how many semi-completed casings – remember, we spoke of that?’
* * *
Monsieur Henri showed her into the petit salon.
‘I’d expected Jacques would come with you.’ He’d shut the door.
‘But if it’s to discuss the possibility of my employment—’
‘Frankly –’ he was close to her, and speaking quietly – Rosie wondering, walls having ears? – ‘Frankly, I wanted to hear from him what’s going on.’
‘We guessed as much. But I can tell you anyway.’ If the place was wired for sound, they’d have had an earful at this time the day before, she was thinking – and she’d have been on her way elsewhere, most likely in chains again. She told him, ‘Jacques and I met your son and Emile Guichard yesterday, and – well, it’s going to happen tonight.’
‘Tonight… Oh, forgive me – sit down?’
‘No, thank you. In any case, if I’m to be your bonne à tout faire—’
‘What’s happening tonight?’
‘Sabotage of the large plate-bending machine and all completed or near-completed casings. Incidentally, you said sixteen completed ones, and two more nearing completion – how many others?’
‘Perhaps another three.’ He was not much more than whispering now. ‘But in this case, the bombing with which you were threatening us—’
‘Postponed. Could be laid on again if tonight’s operation was a failure, of course. And Jacques wanted me to say it’s vital that you should leave your factory keys with us on your way home this evening. You’ll do that, will you?’
‘Say between seven thirty and eight?’
‘Fine—’
‘When will I get them back?’
‘I was going to say, Jacques will talk about that when you bring them.’
‘I might call in on my way by in the morning.’
‘I thought that, but Jacques pointed out that the place might be swarming with Boches. The factory won’t be working anyway – surely… But – this evening, talk about it.’
‘What time will they be doing it?’
‘Well – another point of Jacques’ is that the less you know about it, the better.’
‘All right.’ Large, scared eyes shifting away: a murmur of ‘He has his head screwed on tight, does Jacques…’ The eyes back on her then: ‘You met my son, eh?’
‘And Emile Guichard. But yes – and André and I have met before. On two previous occasions. I didn’t know his real name, that’s all.’
‘You knew each other on sight, eh?’
‘He knew me. I might have recognized him if he hadn’t grown a beard.’ She checked the time by Marilyn’s watch. ‘M’sieur – as a reason for having visited you twice, maybe we could come to some understanding about my working for you? Whether or not you really want it—’
‘You want to, evidently?’
‘As I say, for a cover.’ (Not to mention continued contact with the Marchéval family, irrespective of what transpired tonight.) ‘Entirely valid and believable, if Madame Briard’s not coming to you now?’
‘Well – nothing’s been said, one can only assume—’
‘You do need some help, don’t you? Say we’ve agreed on two hours a day Mondays to Fridays – and Colette will discuss my remuneration. That’s something you should know – I’m not all that quick, in my mind. I was hurt in an air-raid on Rouen – it was when I got these scars. I know, you hardly see them now, but—’
‘Colette did say something about this, as it happens.’
‘Well – fine. It’s only – you know, if you were asked about me. After the action tonight there could be a lot of questions asked.’
‘My domestic arrangements hardly—’
‘It could be me they were interested in – more than your arrangements. And if you were asked what you were calling at the auberge for this evening, it would have been to discuss it with Colette. Your cover and mine.’
‘Do I take it you’ll actually come and work here?’
‘Probably – for a while. But you’ll have your whole house back before long, one might hope. What about your wife – when the Boches are sent packing will she come back, d’you expect?’
Blinking at her… ‘You know about my wife?’
‘Only that she’s in Scotland. Colette mentioned it. Anyway, M’sieur – depending on how things are, I might start work tomorrow. Unless as Jacques predicts getting around is difficult – in which case—’
‘Did you get on well with my son?’
He was on his way to the door, and opening it for her. She shrugged an affirmative of sorts. ‘Naturally we’ve interests in common…’
‘Did he say anything about his sister?’
‘What you told us yesterday – that the man could simply have been ranting, when he said she’d been shipped out. He seemed to think there was a reasonably good chance… M’sieur – between seven thirty and eight: we’ll be waiting…’
* * *
When she got back, Madame Brissac was washing the floor in the dining-room and Jacques was telephoning customers about charcoal. Colette – in the kitchen – told her there’d been a call from the gendarmerie.
‘About you, Justine.’
‘What about me?’
‘Sergeant Hannant – our gendarme-chef – wants to check your papers and have you complete an application for carte de séjour – and carnet de travail – as you mentioned yourself, I remember. Word’s gone round, you see – if he doesn’t look sharp he might get into hot water with his bosses. It would be as well to get it done, Justine.’
‘I suppose so.’
Especially before tomorrow, she realized. When one might imagine it really would hit the fan. As a stranger here she’d be mad not to have the documents she needed.
Snag was, she wasn’t exactly confident the ones she already had would stand up to close scrutiny.
‘Justine.’ Jacques – letting the door swing shut behind him. ‘You’re on Jean Hannant’s “wanted” list, I hear. Better drop in and see him – I mean today, this morning?’
‘I was thinking the same.’
‘I’ll give you a ride down there, if you like. I’ve got to get rid of some of this damn charcoal. Thanks to you, I’m over-stocked.’ A hand on her arm: ‘All right with Monsieur Henri for this evening?’
‘Between seven thirty and eight.’
‘Excellent. Look – I’ll be ready to go in – fifteen minutes. That is, if you want a lift?’
‘Moral support as far as the door?’
‘Well, by all means. Better than that, I’ll take you in, introduce you. The sergeant and I are fellow fishermen.’ He called to Colette, who’d gone through to the larder, ‘I’ll
be outside!’
She hadn’t mentioned to the Craillots that her papers might not be up to scratch. In fact they couldn’t be all that bad, she told herself: calming her own nerves, or trying to. They’d certainly been improved by the little man in the straw hat, the architectural draughtsman in Metz; she’d been rather pleased with them at that stage – because they’d looked good in contrast to how they’d been before, of course. There’d also been a feeling of having got away with it that far, not having had to show them even once in their earlier state. But – always a first time… In her bedroom, shuffling through them. Identity card – which was a forgery – and a laissez passer for the journey from Sarrebourg to Colmar and back. A feuille semestrielle, meat ration card, fish card, tobacco card, clothing card but no coupons… How to account for that, when one didn’t have a single item of even near-new clothing?
Tear it up. Clothing coupons stolen – after the air-raid in which a house had fallen on her: might protest that other things including all her cash had been missing when she’d come to in a casualty-clearing station. Her good shoes that she’d been wearing that day too. It must have been a daylight raid – American therefore, the RAF made theirs at night… She was checking her appearance in the mirror behind the wash-stand: wondering about the pads in her cheeks, which hadn’t stopped ‘Hector’ recognizing her and which she’d have liked to have been able to get rid of. Had to keep them for the time being, though – the identity card photo had been taken with them in place.
She replaced the papers, minus the clothes-ration card, in the inside pocket of her jacket. (The clothing card would have been all right, she’d realized just after tearing it up: having no money to buy clothes with, she’d have sold the coupons. Stupid – anyone in her position would have.) The 9-millimetre – Llama – was still under her mattress, and she moved it to the tin trunk in the boxroom, where other small-sized items reposed inside the roll of antique corsetry. And she’d moved the transceiver back down to Jacques’ workshop before breakfast. Reviewing such arrangements at this point because one had to face the possibility of arrest, which inevitably would be followed by a search.
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