by Susan Lewis
‘You are intending to send de Lorvoire back to France?’ Brüning said, surprised.
‘Most certainly.’
‘But how will that serve us?’
‘All in good time, Walter. All in good time.’
‘And the courier? Are we going to do something about him?’
‘I’m giving the matter some thought,’ von Liebermann answered.
Two junior officers helped them into their coats, then they went out into the biting wind that swept through the bleak grounds of Belsen concentration camp.
‘Incidentally,’ Brüning said, as they approached von Liebermann’s Mercedes, ‘has de Lorvoire’s wife succumbed to Blomberg yet?’
‘I have no idea, Walter. Blomberg’s designs on the Comtesse’s honour are of no interest to me. However, he did have a rather interesting encounter with Élise Pascale when passing through Paris a while ago.’
‘Oh?’
‘I will let Max tell you. He’s waiting in the car. It is most amusing, my friend. Most amusing.’
Béatrice Baptiste, Élise’s ‘nursemaid’, knew only too well what was going on in the sitting-room now that the voices had stopped. Nevertheless she stole a quick look round the door to reassure herself that no harm had come to her charge. Everything was as she had expected. The two Abwehr officers whose chauffeur had driven them over from their headquarters on the avenue de l’Opéra for the third time that week, were seated side by side on the sofa, and Élise, comme d’habitude, was on her knees in front of them, providing them with oral stimulation.
Béatrice closed the door quietly, and sat down on a chair to wait. Today Élise was playing the part of Agnès Sorel, the mistress of King Charles VII. The last time she had been Diane de Poitiers, mistress of King Henry II, and the time before that she had been the most famous of all French mistresses, Jeanne, Marquise de Pompadour. She had had clothes made up to suit each part, which was how Béatrice could tell that she was Agnès Sorel today: the only portrait they had been able to find of Agnès was one in which her bodice was unlaced and her left breast revealed. Élise had been delighted when she saw it was the left breast, for she would never have been able to show her right one; the nipple had been severed by Halunke’s knife.
Béatrice and Erich had decided some time ago that they should allow Élise to do as she pleased with her German visitors. Erich had been against it at first, not only because of what François might say, but because he couldn’t begin to understand why Élise should want to do it. But Béatrice had understood. Élise needed to know that she still had the power not only to arouse a man, but to satisfy him too. If she couldn’t do that, she had wept when explaining it to Béatrice, then she might as well be dead. She had gone on to tell Béatrice how, even as a child, she had idolized the powerful courtesans of the French court. She had modelled herself on them for so long, Béatrice realized, that now, in the troubled recesses of her poor, deranged mind, she had become them – all of them. Naturally, François was the monarch at whose throne she knelt, and like the concubines of old she continued her scheming and conniving to gain what she wanted. Which was, of course, to become his queen.
Madame la Comtesse had little to fear from her, though, for Béatrice never let Élise out of her sight. And as for the German officers Élise was rewarding for their part in her conspiracy to kill Claudine, it was evident that they didn’t know what she was talking about, and didn’t care either. But Élise, poor, tortured, lonely Élise, knew such a sense of purpose to her life again now that, just as Béatrice had hoped, the nightmares and visions had begun to subside.
‘It’s tomorrow!’ Élise hissed, half an hour later as Béatrice closed the door behind the Germans. ‘We’re going to kill her tomorrow!’
Béatrice smiled. She had heard it a hundred times before. Tucking Élise’s breast back into the bodice of her dress, she led her into the sitting-room.
For several minutes she listened as Élise told her, in frenzied detail, what she had discussed with the Germans. It was obvious that she had forgotten precisely what she was talking about. Then at last the glassy look came into her eyes, signalling an imminent return to sanity.
‘I know they’re laughing at me, Béatrice,’ she said, her long skirts sweeping across the floor as she limped to the window. ‘But I have to do it. You understand that, don’t you?’
‘Yes, I understand, chérie.’
‘But will François?’ She turned to look at Béatrice, and Béatrice’s heart turned over at the haunted, childlike look in her eyes. ‘Has there been any word from him?’
Béatrice shook her head.
After a while Élise smiled and said, ‘There will be, soon.’ Then her face darkened. ‘Has Erich found out who Halunke is yet?’ And fully expecting Béatrice to say no, she turned to gaze out of the window. But when Béatrice’s soft voice answered in the affirmative, Élise’s eyes dilated and she turned back again.
‘What!’ she gasped. ‘Why didn’t you tell me before? Who? Who is it?’
‘He won’t tell me,’ Béatrice said apologetically. ‘He says that …’
‘No, I don’t believe you,’ Élise said, shaking her head rapidly from side to side. ‘If he knew he would have told you, I know he would, and I have a right to know, Béatrice.’
‘I won’t deny that, Élise, but I swear it’s the truth. I don’t know who Halunke is.’ She sighed. ‘I’ve already gone too far in telling you this much. It was only that I wanted you to know that he’ll be caught soon. But until Erich has actual proof, and until he talks to François, he’s refusing even to tell me.’
Erich von Pappen was sitting in his shabby studio room in the Residence Domance on the Left Bank, staring down at the papers in front of him. His eyes were sore from lack of sleep and his fingers stained with nicotine. He had been over it time and time again, sifting through lists of names and dates until his head ached and his vision blurred, but always the result was the same. And he knew he now had finally to admit that he was never going to come up with the answer.
He gazed despondently down at the single sheet of paper he had placed on top of the pile. There was no longer any doubt that Halunke’s true identity belonged to one of the two men whose names were written on it. He gained no satisfaction from knowing that he had been right to think Hortense de Bourchain’s murder was at the root of it, but if he lived to reach a hundred he would never understand why either man should feel the need to seek such bitter revenge. François would not understand it either; von Pappen knew that he had never for a moment considered that Halunke was a man as close to him as this.
He stood up, walked over to the bed and sat down with his head in his hands. He knew now that François was being held in Belsen. He also knew that he would be returning to France within a month – his source inside the Abwehr had given him the information a week ago. The question was, how the hell was he going to tell François about Halunke? And what the hell was François going to do when he found out that the man who had butchered Élise, who had killed his father, who had driven him into the hands of the Abwehr, and who could even now be threatening the lives of his wife and son, was either his brother, Lucien de Lorvoire, or his vigneron, Armand St Jacques?
Everything fitted for both men, the dates, the times, the places. The only thing he could not get straight was motive. Lucien had been Hortense de Bourchain’s lover, and Armand had witnessed François killing her. But why in God’s name would Lucien kill his own father? And why should Hortense’s death matter to Armand? But there could no longer be any doubt. At the time Élise was attacked, Lucien was in Paris and Armand, von Pappen had since discovered, was absent from Lorvoire. At the time Louis died, both men were at Lorvoire. And every time Claudine had experienced that extraordinary sense of being spied on, Lucien had been absent from his regiment and Armand had been there in the forest with her.
Von Pappen glanced at the window and saw that it was beginning to get dark. He heard the dull clatter of wooden shoes on the cobbles as
the people of Montparnasse hurried to get home before curfew. Knowing that very soon now the concièrge would go outside to check that there was no light escaping from the Residence windows, he got up to close the shutters and pull the heavy black drapes. The power had been off all day; he struck a match and lit both a candle and a cigarette.
He didn’t hear the footsteps on the stairs, or the bare boards creaking on the landing outside. Even if he had, he would have presumed they belonged to one of his neighbours. He drew deeply on his cigarette and asked himself for the thousandth time where Lucien de Lorvoire was now.
The door handle behind him started to turn. Unaware of it, his mind moved to Armand St Jacques, the man François had allowed to have an affair with his wife in order that he should protect her. Which of these two hated François so much that they could do this to him? Which one of them was Halunke?
Von Pappen felt a cold draught blow into the room. It unsettled the curtains and made him shiver. Then he realized that he was no longer alone. He turned round. A sad, crooked smile came to his face. So now he knew who Halunke was, and his last thought before the bullet tore through his brain was one of desperate sorrow that he would never be able to tell François.
– 27 –
CLAUDINE WAS IN the kitchen with Arlette, grinding acorns to make coffee and discussing that week’s menus, when the door opened and Louis toddled in, followed by Corinne.
‘Maman, we have a surprise for you,’ he said.
‘You do?’ she smiled, sweeping him up in her arms. He was so like his father now that her heart turned over every time she saw him. She hadn’t heard from François in almost a year. There had been no news either from Erich von Pappen, though she couldn’t make up her mind whether that was good or bad.
For weeks, following his last visit, she had tried to obtain an Ausweis in order to travel to Paris, but her application was constantly refused. What she hoped to achieve once she was there, she wasn’t sure, for she had no idea where Erich lived; what she did know was that sitting around at Lorvoire tearing herself to pieces with worry was serving no purpose at all. However, in the end she had no choice, because as Armand pointed out, if she defied the Germans there was no telling what reprisals would be visited on the family.
With Armand, it was a different matter. Since he had taken over the selling of the wine he found it much easier to obtain travel documents, so, only the week before, he had gone to Paris himself. He was there for five days, by which time the date on his permit had expired and he was forced to return to Lorvoire. He hadn’t managed to find Erich von Pappen.
‘And what is the surprise, chéri?’ Claudine said, swallowing the lump in her throat and kissing Louis’ cheek.
‘You have to come upstairs,’ he said, frowning and rubbing his fist over the wet patch her kiss had left.
‘Right now?’
He turned to look at Corinne and she nodded. ‘Yes, now,’ he confirmed. He wriggled to be put down, then held out his hand to lead her from the kitchen. Claudine gave Arlette a mystified shrug and told her she would be back.
‘I’ve painted a picture for you,’ Louis told her as they started up the stairs, ‘but you’re not to keep kissing me for it.’
‘I wouldn’t dream of it,’ Claudine answered, grinning as she caught Corinne’s eye.
‘But that isn’t the surprise,’ Louis added.
Claudine wondered why he didn’t seem very excited: giving her a surprise was usually a source of tremendous glee. This time he seemed, if anything, rather bemused, and she was more than a little intrigued to find out what was waiting for her in the nursery.
As they crossed the landing to take the stairs to the second floor, they passed the door to Blomberg’s room. Claudine felt a sudden blaze of hatred. Only the night before he had made her kneel in front of him to polish his boots, then he had called in Hans and made her clean his too. But that was nothing to what he had forced her to do the week before. He had returned from the Château d’Artigny very nearly drooling at the mouth because he had only that day discovered she was half-English. In graphic detail he told her then what was happening to other dual-nationals – and their children – in the rest of occupied France. Of course, he said, it was his duty to pass this information to the Gestapo, but as they had become such good friends he was willing to overlook his duty in this instance, providing …
He had laughed so hard then that he had started to choke, so it was some minutes before he was able to tell her the price of his silence. An hour later she was in the drawing-room, the door was locked, and she was performing for three German officers, whom Blomberg had invited to watch the Comtesse de Lorvoire crawl about on all fours, naked.
She was now deeply suspicious of how much Blomberg actually knew about François and what he was doing, but she dared not run the risk of defying him until she had definite proof he was lying, but even then there was now this added complication of her being half-English. So for the time being at least she had no choice but to do as he said, but one day he would pay. He would pay with his life and she personally was going to take it.
‘There’s no need to look so gloomy,’ Corinne whispered in her ear, ‘it’s really quite a nice surprise.’
Claudine forced a smile, but she doubted whether anything short of François’ return would cheer her up today. But she was wrong.
When they reached the nursery playroom, Louis positioned her in the middle of the floor and Corinne closed the door. Then someone came up behind her, and put a hand over her eyes and said, ‘Guess who?’
She spun round, her eyes wide and her heart racing. ‘Lucien!’ she cried, and flung her arms around him. ‘Oh Lucien, we thought you were dead! We thought, oh, I don’t know, we thought so many things … Let me look at you! Oh, you don’t know how good it is to see you! Solange will be ecstatic. We’ll have to break it to her gently, but even then …’ Suddenly the smile fell from her face and she looked from his empty sleeve back to his laughing eyes. ‘Lucien! What happened to your arm?’
‘Careless of me, I know,’ he answered, ‘but I lost the darned thing and couldn’t find it anywhere.’
‘But how?’
‘It’s a long story. I’m just glad it was my left arm and not the right, or I’d be really stymied. Anyway, I’m getting used to it now, I hardly notice it’s missing.’
‘Are you Papa?’ Louis asked, gazing up at him curiously.
Grinning, Lucien lowered himself to Louis’ height and said, ‘No. I’m your Uncle Lucien. Don’t you remember me?’
Louis pulled a face, then looked at Claudine. ‘I think so,’ he said. Then turning back to Lucien, ‘Do you know where Papa is?’
It was Lucien’s turn to look at Claudine. ‘No,’ he answered.
‘We haven’t heard from him in almost a year,’ Claudine said. ‘I’ll tell you about it later. First, I’d better go and break the news to Solange.’
‘No,’ Lucien said, standing up and lifting Louis with him. ‘We’re not going to tell Grand-mère I’m here, are we, Louis?’
Louis’ face took on a conspiratorial look and he solemnly shook his head. Then Corinne took him into her own arms and reminded him that they had the chickens to feed.
‘We only have two horses now,’ Louis told Lucien, ‘the Germans took the others. So we keep chickens in the stables instead.’
‘I see,’ Lucien nodded, ‘that seems to make sense.’
Louis drew back as Claudine went to kiss him goodbye, but then, relenting, he offered her his cheek on the understanding that she didn’t make it wet.
‘He’s grown so much,’ Lucien chuckled as the door closed behind Louis and Corinne, ‘I can hardly believe it. I’m sorry he saw me, by the way, but he happened to walk out of the nursery just as I let myself in from the bridge. Gave him the fright of his life, I think. Thank God Corinne was behind him or he might have screamed. You have Germans living here, I’m told?’
‘Just the one. And his chauffeur. They’re out all day.’
>
‘What’s he like?’
‘Don’t ask,’ Claudine said. She sat down on the sofa, and Lucien joined her. ‘Now what’s all this business about not telling Solange?’
He glanced at his watch. ‘You won’t be missed?’ he said.
‘No.’ Arlette would carry on without her.
‘All right. I’d better start at the beginning.’
‘Start with the arm.’
He nodded. Then, as if rattling off a shopping list, he said, ‘I was engaged in the fighting at Abbeville with the Fourth Armoured Division under de Gaulle. Then the Germans pushed through, cutting us off from the main British Expeditionary Force, and I was injured – not seriously, but enough to put me out for several days. The next thing I knew I was at Dunkirk, being piled into a stinking fishing boat along with dozens of others. As we started into the Channel our boat collided with another, and my arm, which was hanging over the side at the time …’ He made a slicing motion with his hand and grinned as Claudine winced.
‘Anyway,’ he went on, ‘we got to England and I was carted off to hospital, which was where one of de Gaulle’s men found me. He took me off to London as soon as I’d recovered, and that’s where I was until January. In January I sailed back to France with a couple of others, again in a stinking fishing boat. We made our way to Paris, holed up there for a while, and now I’m here.’
‘Why do I get the impression you’ve missed out the most important bit?’
Lucien grinned. ‘Because I have. And because I have to know that I can trust you before I tell you anything else.’
‘And what am I supposed to do to convince you of that?’
‘I guess nothing, because I’m going to trust you anyway. I have to. The reason I’m here in France is to help organize an escape route for the British pilots who are shot down or forced to bail out of their aircraft. It’s imperative that we get them back to England as quickly as possible so that they can continue the fight.’
‘And where do I come in?’
‘We need safe-houses for the pilots right the way through the country down into Spain. We also need couriers to let the safe-houses know when to expect the pilots. But that’s only the beginning. We need clothes, documents, guides, doctors, medication and as much information about the movement of German troops as we can get. You have contacts in this area, so does Armand. Where is he, by the way? Perhaps we should call him in?’