April In Paris, 1921

by Tessa Lunney

  ‘He’s Hausmann, a leader in the Freikorps in Silesia. I’ve just come from Katowitz.’

  Bertie transferred his stare from Tom to his empty glass. The sounds of the street could only just be heard and the room was still as a tomb.

  ‘So Teddy really is behind all this.’ Bertie was barely audible. I reached out and squeezed his hand.

  ‘But why he is, we don’t know,’ I said. ‘We only know that he’s not the mole.’

  22

  Everybody Step

  THE DOOR BOY AT RUE LA BOÉTIE recognised me and smiled. With my tip in his hand, he ran ahead, opening doors, knocking on others, giving me the royal treatment. Tom didn’t look surprised; he must have thought that this was how Paris always treated me. I didn’t like to disabuse him.

  Pablo’s housekeeper opened the door with her usual sour face, but quaked when she saw me.

  ‘Bonjour, Céline,’ I said. ‘I’m back for those biscuits.’

  ‘Mademoiselle.’ She didn’t move, she quivered between anger and fear. ‘You bring the police?’ She nodded at Tom.

  ‘Oh, no! No no, he’s my friend. We can trust him completely. Tom, this is the redoubtable Madame Céline.’

  Tom gave his best smile and reached forward to shake her hand. Her fear thawed as she looked between us, until she finally opened the door to admit us. She bustled us out of the dark hall and straight into the light, warm kitchen.

  ‘Pablo will be home soon,’ she said as she placed us in chairs, refreshed the teapot, opened the biscuit tin.

  ‘We’ll be quick, of course,’ I said. ‘Oh, are these biscuits from your sister too?’

  ‘Yes, vanilla cream.’ Céline nodded, her lips a severe line. ‘Eat as many as you wish. Madame Picasso does not like “peasant baking”.’

  ‘More fool her,’ said Tom, already shoving a second biscuit in his mouth.

  Céline almost smiled; bringing Tom was always a good idea.

  ‘We’ve come about Jean-Claude,’ I said. ‘Where will he be tonight?’

  Céline almost dropped the teacup as she was handing it to me. ‘Tonight?’ She looked confused. ‘I don’t know . . .’

  ‘Who does he usually spend his evenings with? Where does he usually go? It’s vital for you to tell us everything if you want to keep him out of trouble.’

  ‘Trouble with the police?’

  ‘Or with that nasty Englishman.’ I sipped the tea, a delicately perfumed black with just a hint of lemon. The food she’d prepared for us was too subtle for my brutal questions.

  She heaved an enormous sigh.

  ‘Is it as bad as that?’ I asked.

  She responded with a faint smile. ‘He is friends with . . . men from the factory. Other old soldiers who “understand him”, he says. Men who want to change things, what does he say, “to sweep away the hypocrites”, to “do away with the warmongers”. I don’t understand him.’ She crumbled a biscuit, unseeing, into her saucer. ‘He finally has a job, in a place he likes, with a foreman who is understanding of his weaknesses, and he makes trouble!’

  She put down her tea and looked away from us, out the window, blinking rapidly.

  ‘Has he ever mentioned the names of these fellow troublemakers?’

  ‘No, never, he’s very secretive,’ she said. ‘But I know he doesn’t go to mass. I know he spends his Sundays with them, doing God knows what heathen things.’

  ‘Where does he work?’

  She smoothed her hands along the table, polished and scrubbed almost down to the grain. The kitchen was neat and tidy, ready for anything from tea to a banquet. Céline’s dress was perfectly pressed and speckless. But these were her areas of control. Her son, it seemed, was far from neat and left her heart a mess. She wanted to keep him close and under her protection; she needed help to give him independence. Her hesitation told me that she lost out either way.

  ‘He works at the Citroën factory.’

  THE CLUES WERE COMING TOGETHER. ‘Cyclops and Godson accepted mission for Godsday’ – Luc and Jean-Claude had accepted a mission for Sunday, today. Luc had told me that the next meeting would be today at six o’clock. I had to hand over the mole at seven. What was I supposed to do with that hour? The mission had to be the exchange of Olga’s portrait, as that was the whole point of Jean-Claude being involved – he was the link between Pablo and Fern. That he worked at the Citroën factory, where the meeting and handover were both to be held, only confirmed this. Other clues were still floating around my mind, yet to find their proper place in the puzzle – the Russians in Silesia, that Lazarev sent me into a trap, intentionally or otherwise, who ‘Mr Pinchy’ was, the Englishman with the ‘broken face’ who was both in Poland and Paris – but tonight seemed straightforward enough. Luc and Jean-Claude would hand over the painting to Fern, I would intercept the painting and hand Fern over to one of Fox’s agents. What could possibly go wrong? A better question would have been, what fresh hell was this? I sighed to myself. There was nothing to do but wait for night.

  Our late breakfast was followed by a late lunch, as Tom and I spent hours trying to find a camp bed. With all the shops closed, it was a case of knocking on doors, begging friends at the Rotonde, paying the hungrier street urchins to haul the thing up four flights of stairs. Blankets and a pillow were another rigmarole, as Montparnassians didn’t generally run to spare bedding. I almost trekked out to see Maisie, but a hotel manager from across the street saved us the trip. All this fuss because Tom refused to relent, he would stay in my garret, come what may. All the fuss to avoid thinking about what terror awaited us that night.

  But in the end, with everything that happened, it was a good thing that we didn’t have to sneak past a hotel concierge. That we could sit in my studio in private to clean up the mess.

  AT HALF-PAST FIVE, Tom and I made our way to the factory. The sky had darkened with drizzle, summoning foul smells from the grates and gutters. We huddled into our coats as we stepped over the puddles.

  ‘Is there a secret knock, a test, something to declare us?’ he asked.

  ‘You’re asking the wrong person.’

  ‘So, what do we do?’

  ‘We do as the jazz men do. We improvise.’

  I wore my trousers and boots and military coat. Tom had raised his eyebrows when I put on my outfit, but he had to admit it was useful, ‘even a bit flattering, Button. Those ambulance drivers always looked so dowdy, but a well-cut pair of trousers on a woman, nicely fitted around the rump, hmmm, I think I could get used to it.’

  When we got to quai de Javel I wished I’d done some more research.

  ‘Jesus, Button, this factory is enormous!’

  It wasn’t just a building or two but a small city dedicated to the cars and their makers. Warehouse after warehouse, chimney after silo after workshop stretched out in front of us. The nearest growled with industry and the furthest we couldn’t see.

  ‘Where the hell are we supposed to go?’ Tom whispered.

  ‘Somewhere secluded is my guess. They’re hardly going to have a revolutionary meeting under the foreman’s gaze, are they?’

  The first set of gates we found were locked but the next set were open. We slipped inside and headed as far as we could away from the working machines. We kept near the perimeter, avoiding noise and people, until we finally reached the back of the complex. It was quiet, the Sunday stillness ominous amongst all these machines. In one building I saw a bright window, a beacon in the dying day. Dusk was a deadening of light and made each outline fuzzy as we searched the warehouse for a way in. Finally, a little door around the back, like a fairy door in an old castle, revealed itself in the gloaming.

  ‘Do you know how to pick a lock?’

  ‘Button, I thought you’d never ask. Do you have a hairpin?’

  I trapped my hair under my hat as he knelt at the lock. ‘By the way, how do you know how to pick a lock?’

  ‘Boarding school,’ he said, frowning in concentration. ‘Couldn’t get into the pantry without it.�
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  ‘Not enough biscuits from Mummy?’

  ‘You know my mother – a stale orange and a platitude was considered generous. Ah!’

  The door wheezed open noisily, but I couldn’t see any moving shadows in the dark. I climbed in and Tom closed the fairy door behind us.

  Car bodies stood in rows in front of us, blind and gutless. The room rose into a ceiling of metal girders, an industrial church, with the last light of day streaming through the high windows to illuminate the mezzanine floors. The only sound was the coo of pigeons somewhere in that secular belfry. It smelt strongly of oil, dust and diesel. I stood, hardly daring to breathe, in our dark corner of the floor. Tom touched my sleeve and pointed. On the far side of the factory a sliver of light cut through the reverential darkness. We headed straight for it.

  We heard voices as we moved closer and I stopped Tom to listen. It was just a murmur, not violent or passionate or pleading. I held my coat close to my body to avoid knocking any tables, to disturb the least dust possible. The door was closed, but the voices kept murmuring even as I crept up to it – they hadn’t heard us. I needed to see them and hear what they were saying. I could hardly see Tom in the darkness, but he saw me hesitate to listen, and he must have guessed what I wanted. He touched my arm and pointed upwards to the wooden floors of the level above. If we could get upstairs, we might just be able to watch them through the wooden slats of the ceiling.

  If you want a fun, relaxing time, don’t creep around an unknown factory warehouse in the dark. It’s spooky and smelly and every corner could cut you open with a clang. We had to move quickly so as not to miss a word; we had to move slowly while our eyes adjusted to the lack of light. Factory warehouses are noisy places, even when empty, with jangly tables and creaky floorboards. Every time we made more than a whisper we stopped, but the voices mumbled on. We can’t have been that loud, even if I was sure Tom could hear my heart pounding. It felt not merely unprofessional but childish, and I feared that I was losing my touch – even if I had got my information too quickly, I should’ve investigated the factory before this crucial meeting. I followed Tom round the corner, up a very tricky metal staircase, across the floor, and into an unlocked office. A sliver of light beamed up on the far side of the desk. With our shoes beside us, we lowered ourselves down to look at our quarry through the cracks in the floor.

  It was Luc and one other man. They sat at a table, a saucer full of cigarette stubs in front of them, a bottle between them with two small glasses of brown liquor. Luc sat in a wheelchair-type contraption, with an ingenious crank between the wheels so that he could wheel himself with one hand. The other man leant forward with his elbows on the table, one hand supporting his head as though exhausted. Other than that, the room held only a row of sinks down one side and a number of hooks on the far wall, some of which held filthy towels. The floor looked wet with run-off. I couldn’t see much more except, of course, what lay on the table between them.

  Pablo’s painting.

  It had been wrapped in tea towels and string. I knew then that the other man was Jean-Claude, Céline’s son. The painting was partially unwrapped, to be shown to Luc, and presumably to anyone else who turned up. I looked up and saw Tom watching me, his face lit with severe shadows by the light through the floor. I nodded – that’s the painting, they’re our men. He raised his eyebrows but I could only shrug – I don’t know what happens next. I looked down and willed myself to hear their voices. But they spoke too softly, in a kind of patois or slang that I couldn’t properly understand even when I did catch a phrase or two. I had to be content to read their expressions. Jean-Claude drooped over the table, head bowed; his leg jiggled compulsively and he couldn’t stop smoking. Luc was still, he barely moved, his hand gripped his glass. Both men were tense, perhaps afraid. They didn’t touch the painting but instead addressed it, talking to Olga’s purple face instead of each other.

  There was a bang from somewhere downstairs and both men jumped – as did we. It had to be a door slamming, as footsteps rang out over the concrete with voices, harsh and masculine and definitely not speaking French. The footsteps came closer and I mentally cursed that I hadn’t brought a pistol, or even a knife, to this assignation. My wits were sharp but not literally cutting. I cursed my lack of preparation – so unprofessional. But the steps didn’t come upstairs. They went into the room, pushing open the door with a bang.

  There they stood, right below us, unmistakable under the washroom’s naked bulb.

  Fern and Hausmann.

  They stood as if in uniform. Backs straight, feet at ease, coats buttoned to the top. They took off their hats as they entered, Fern placing his on the table, Hausmann flinging his carelessly, like the dandy that Bertie knew.

  ‘Do you have it?’ said Fern, his precise French loud enough to rise up to the ceiling.

  ‘Here, comrade,’ Luc indicated the painting.

  I watched Hausmann closely. His hair was so fair that his pomade hardly darkened it. He was slight but tall and moved with a feline grace that suggested menace. He wasn’t Bertie’s usual type, but then who knew what kind of man he was with Bertie. It was clear that both Jean-Claude and Luc were in awe of him. They were stiff, almost frozen to their chairs, as Hausmann moved around them to look at the room, their clothes, until finally coming to rest by the painting.

  ‘Let’s look at it, shall we?’ Hausmann said in an odd, simpering French. He completely unwrapped the painting from its cloths, his movements mesmeric in the way they were both languid and powerful. Olga’s face looked up at us; the vibrant yellows and purples, blues and oranges made the canvas luminous in that drab room.

  Hausmann caressed it, picked it up, turned it over, moved it this way and that. ‘Yes, it’ll do, wouldn’t you say?’ he said.

  ‘If you say so.’ Fern showed none of the charm I’d witnessed at Margaret’s party.

  ‘Well done. I congratulate you both,’ Hausmann said to Luc and Jean-Claude.

  ‘All for the cause, comrade.’ Luc was nothing if not a true believer.

  ‘Yes, quite,’ Hausmann said in English. He turned to Fern. ‘Finish it.’

  Luc was startled – he clearly knew enough English to know what that meant – but when Fern pulled out his gun both Luc and Jean-Claude started yelling. Hausmann sat on the edge of the table and calmly wrapped up the painting as Fern directed the men to stage their own shoot-out suicide. Jean-Claude blubbed and Luc’s yell became a rasp almost straightaway. Fern directed Jean-Claude to place Luc by the sink, to hit him in the face as though he’d beaten him; Jean-Claude pleaded, Luc protested and tried to appeal to their belief in the cause. Hausmann laughed at his appeals and mimicked his injured voice; he gave stage directions to Jean-Claude, cruelly highlighting the pretence of their fight.

  ‘Go on, hit him properly, like you meant it – and once more, with feeling, man—’

  ‘Get Luc over there, we want him to bleed into the sink—’

  ‘Don’t make me, I can’t do it—’

  ‘He won’t do it! You traitors! You, you – bourgeoisie!’

  ‘Is that your best insult? Oh dear me. We’re a bit loftier than the bourgeoisie. How old is your family, Ferny?’

  ‘Norman princes and Prussian Junkers. Do I have to hit you, you sobbing fool?’

  ‘And my mother was a princess, once upon a time. Now, put your hands – sorry, hand – up by your face, as though to shield the cruel, traitorous blows—’

  I looked at Tom and his expression was unlike any of his that I knew. It was as though the skin was pulled tighter across his bones, his eyes focused, his brow creased and every movement sharp and spare. I realised that this must be the face he showed to the guns, the shells, the dawn whistles for an attack. It was his fighting face. He nodded at me. He’d need it.

  We pushed ourselves up and moved quietly across the floor. I don’t know how Tom saw it but he grabbed a wrench from a table on the way down and handed it to me with a whisper. The yells were becoming more u
rgent and a high-pitched laugh pierced the commotion. I prayed that Jean-Claude would be able to help, as while Tom was a match for Fern, I was no physical match for Hausmann.

  We had no plan but speed and surprise. Tom pushed open the door and I ran for Fern. I whacked him on the shoulder with the wrench as Tom took advantage of Fern’s stumble to kick the gun out of his hands. Tom grabbed him and, after a breath, Jean-Claude helped Tom wrestle Fern into a headlock. I grabbed the gun as a shot ricocheted – Hausmann had fired at us – Jean-Claude and Tom both yelled out. I aimed the gun at Hausmann.

  ‘No,’ he said simply. The room was still. His own slender pistol was pointed at me from where he sat, apparently unmoved, on the edge of the table.

  ‘It’d be a shame to shoot you all,’ he said. ‘So messy. But needs must.’

  He cocked his gun.

  ‘Teddy,’ I said in English, ‘that isn’t necessary. Just the painting will suffice.’

  He raised his eyebrows and laughed, a girlish giggle that sounded hideous emerging from his mouth. ‘Is this the one you told me about?’ he asked Fern.

  ‘Bitch,’ Fern spat.

  ‘Fox sends his regards, Ferny.’ I didn’t take my eyes off Hausmann and the sneer left on his face by his laughter. ‘He looks forward to seeing you again.’

  Fern cursed his former employer as he struggled with Tom. A vicious smile split Hausmann’s face. Jean-Claude and Luc, clearly not understanding a word, were silent.

  ‘You work for that jumped-up little Anglophile? Traitor to his German heritage. He’s not worth spitting on. Well, well.’ He regarded me critically. ‘I must say, I can’t see what Bertie sees in you. I wouldn’t think you were his taste. Your friend, on the other hand . . . I might just take him with me. But he seems to be somewhat attached to Ferny and I always hate to break up a couple in a squeeze.’