‘It’s nothing. I’ll change my suit and go down to that boiler room.’
‘There was a call for you,’ Junet said, waving two fingers at the phone like a papal blessing.
‘Oh?’
‘A young woman, very polite. I left the note pinned to your door.’
Duchene put the ladder against the wall, offering to return it to the basement when he attended to the boiler. He took the stairs two at a time to his apartment, plucked the note from his door and stepped inside.
Mlle Payet called. Can meet tomorrow. 7 a.m., Le Fouquet’s.
– M. Junet
PS, Foyer lights and boiler out.
Duchene crumpled the note and dropped it into the makeshift ashtray on his dining table. He took out his lighter and set it on fire.
Thursday, 17 August 1944
FIFTEEN
‘God damn it, this is really pushing it,’ Lucien said as he opened the Renault’s door for Duchene. He pumped the pedal, and the car burst forward. Duchene was ready for it this time, his feet in and the door closed before they’d picked up too much speed.
He watched in the rear-view mirror as a man in a dark coat stepped out from a sheltered doorway – most likely the same man he saw earlier. He had his hat in his hand and swivelled on the spot – to chase would be futile. There was no denying it, the Gestapo were persistent.
‘First, this is too fucking early. It’s not even seven.’ Lucien gave the steering wheel a sharp turn that made the tires squeal. ‘Second, my housekeeper has forbidden you from calling again. She’s furious after last night.’
‘Don’t exaggerate. It was well before nine.’
‘You could have waited until after curfew. I would have been in at least.’
‘And left her to answer the phone anyway. Seemed the kinder thing to do.’
‘Well, this is the last time we use this car. Owner’s worried because it’s getting low on petrol, and I don’t want to run down my stores replacing it. The Germans are stockpiling it all.’
They were well into the flow of traffic now as they moved towards the heart of the city. Duchene looked back to see if they were being followed, and kept watching all the way from the narrow tributary streets of the Palais-Royal to the wide flow of the Champs-Élysées.
Nothing.
He turned back to face the road.
‘Anything?’ asked Lucien.
‘Not that I can see.’
‘Well, that’s something. You could look a bit more enthusiastic – you’ve got a chauffeur who’s skilled in the art of misdirection. Things are looking up, my friend.’
Camille hadn’t come home the night before. That wasn’t unusual for her, especially if the German officers wanted her to play late into the night; they would give her an escort or offer her a spare room in their hotels. And yet, her not arriving had put him on edge. His sleep had been fraught, his memories ever-present. And with the Hennessy gone, he didn’t even have anything to drink to quell the noise.
‘Are they looking up?’ he asked Lucien. ‘I’ve got to get back to Philippe with an answer by the end of the day.’ And Faber.
‘I’m assuming this morning’s rendezvous is to do with the missing priest?’
‘It is. I’m meeting Madame Noirot’s niece.’
Lucien raised an eyebrow.
‘Apparently Madame lent the crypt key to her niece, who returned it before the cache was stolen. I’m hoping she knows who the thieves were. And how they got access to the crypt.’
Ahead was a convoy of German tanks, steel fortresses that shook the boulevard and everything on it. Their engines grunted under their tonnage and blasted thick smoke into the morning air. Lucien brought the car around them and detoured down a side street.
‘If the niece knows something, anything, it’s a start,’ Duchene said to fill the silence. ‘I’m hoping this will give me some names or faces.’
Lucien grunted. ‘I’m keeping us clear of any convoys. There’s a lot of movement on the roads today – at a guess, armour moving to the edges of the city. The Germans are twitchy. I’m not looking to give them a reason to stop us, or worse.’
‘Agreed.’
Tables were set out on the pavement ahead – they sprung up each morning like mushrooms, to disappear again at curfew. They ran in a long uninterrupted row outside a line of cafés and brasseries. Although the restaurant shopfronts differed, the tables and chairs were identical, perhaps by some ancient by-law.
Lucien pulled up outside one of the restaurants. ‘You’re bold,’ he said, peering through its windows at the glittering interior. ‘Lot of Germans in there. Are you sure it’s safe to talk about a missing cache of Resistance weapons?’
‘We’ll soon find out,’ Duchene said as he opened the passenger door and slid across his leather seat.
‘Let’s hope I see you later,’ Lucien said.
Le Fouquet’s was on a street corner. It was still early, and both pedestrian and vehicle traffic was yet to pick up, but six soldiers formed a perimeter in front of the restaurant, their rifles slung, their young faces scanning the street. Several senior officers were seated at the tables on the pavement. Caps off, they ate breakfasts of pork sausage and other meats with a large beer in one hand and a cigarette in the other. Their meals were marked by hunched conversations and cautious glances. Several stared at Duchene as he passed by their tables.
When he entered the restaurant, he took off his hat and scanned the room. There were more German officers and only a few civilians. The hum of the espresso machine was joined by an occasional burst of sound from the kitchen as its door opened. Again, conversations were muted. There was only one unaccompanied woman in the room; she sat in a corner, a half-finished coffee before her, and wore a fur-lined coat and bonnet more than a few seasons out of style.
The maître d’ started to approach Duchene, who waved him off just as the woman looked up. Their eyes met. She was stunning, with high cheekbones and large hazel eyes under well-manicured brows. Her lips were wide with a natural cupid’s bow. On the side of one cheek was a fine, faded scar, which seemed only to magnify her beauty.
‘Eliane Payet?’ Duchene asked as he arrived at her table.
‘Monsieur Duchene,’ she said, her voice husky and measured.
‘Mademoiselle, you’ll have to excuse me for being late.’
‘It’s no bother. I needed the coffee. The time wasn’t wasted.’
He noted the black silk dress that peeked out from below the hem of her coat, the tired lines under her eyes.
The restaurant had a faux-rococo styling: heavy drapery, wood-panelled walls, candelabras on every surface. The chandelier that hung from the central point of the room was equal parts brass and crystal.
Duchene sat down and nodded towards her coffee cup. ‘I’m surprised they still have some. You can’t find coffee anywhere in Paris anymore.’
‘Well, that’s the trick, Monsieur Duchene. You have to follow the Germans.’
He smiled. ‘I’m hoping you can help me with something.’
‘So I understand. I got your message. I wasn’t sure about it at first, but I asked around. You’re the man who finds the missing children.’
‘Sometimes. If you’d let me pay for your meal, I’m hoping you’ll answer some questions.’
She smirked at him. ‘It would seem there is no such thing as a free breakfast after all.’
There were brass plaques on the wall behind her – the names of writers, artists and famous patrons.
Duchene waved over the waiter. Eliane seemed to know the menu; she ordered the breakfast sausage casserole and a beer. He ordered an omelette and a coffee.
‘I could never get in here before the occupation,’ she said. ‘They wouldn’t have me.’
He lowered his voice. ‘I need to talk to you about your aunt. About the
key she lent you.’
Eliane nodded, and the lightness dropped from her face. ‘Did you really find those children?’
‘Yes.’
‘I feel sick about it. The priest has gone missing.’
‘Well, I’m trying to find him now. I’m trying to find him quickly.’
‘You must understand that I had no idea. It seemed so … unimportant. Harmless.’
He paused. ‘I guess it would have. A crypt isn’t a place that people tend to go.’
‘Unless they’re –’ she looked around the room before whispering, ‘– working for our side. They spoke French. I thought I was helping. I remember seeing the entrance to the Catacombs when I was a little girl. There’s a secret door. I thought it was a way for them to, you know …’
Duchene nodded. ‘Who approached you about the key?’
‘I don’t have names. There were two of them. Both tall. One with dark hair, the other fair. They wore coats, hats – they weren’t trying to make their identities known.’ Eliane took out a cigarette packet: Camels. More American cigarettes, spreading like wildfire, faster than their approaching army.
Duchene reached out his lighter. While he lit the cigarette, she cradled his hands in both of hers. They were cold and shook a little. She plucked a stray piece of tobacco from the side of her lip and exhaled. ‘Do you want one?’
‘Please.’ He regretted it immediately – the smoke was harsh. ‘What else can you tell me about them?’
‘They came to see me three times. The first time to ask me to get the key. They offered me forty francs – twenty in advance, twenty on delivery. The other times were to take the key and return it.’
‘Where was this?’
‘Near where I work.’ She drew on the cigarette and exhaled. ‘At Raspoutine. They took it before curfew and returned it to me the next morning when curfew broke.’
‘They knew who you were?’
‘Yes.’
‘How do you imagine they knew about you and your aunt?’
‘That’s a longer story. Let’s just say that I am an embarrassment to her and the congregation of Saint-Lambert. I used to go there when I was little. Then the war came, I lost my job, found other ways to make money. They learnt about it. I’m the source of much gossip.’ A bittersweet smile passed across her face.
‘Did these men say anything specific that might help me identify them? And was there anything strange about them, anything that didn’t make sense?’
‘One did most of the talking. He was stern. Blond. Frowned a lot. The other was silent most of the time – except for when I left, and he offered to escort me to the Métro. His accent wasn’t French, it was German.’
‘German? Are you sure?’
‘I am certain. Although he didn’t seem like a soldier. But what else could he have been?’
‘You said he had dark hair?’
‘Yes.’
‘A lopsided smile, maybe?’
‘Yes.’
Duchene’s hands had moved faster than his thoughts; he looked down and was already holding the Baedeker guidebook. He pulled out the Eiffel Tower photo and showed it to Eliane. ‘Is this the man?’ he said, pointing to Kloke.
She only peered at it for a moment. ‘That’s him.’
‘You’re certain?’
She nodded.
Duchene had to sit back in his chair. His mind was racing as it looked for connections, trying to unpick the knot. How did Kloke know about the cache?
Duchene thought of Faber. This would explain his desperation to find Kloke. And the Gestapo’s interest. That made some sense, at least.
‘Are you sure the other man was French?’ Duchene asked. ‘Perhaps he spoke with a Swiss accent, just a hint?’
‘Maybe. I don’t know if I’ve spoken to that many Swiss people in my life.’
‘Not older? Not thinning across the brow?’
‘They wore hats. It’s possible, sure, but he didn’t look that old.’
The door to the restaurant chimed as it opened. Duchene found himself looking up at it, along with most of the customers. They must have sensed what he had: a stiffness to the movements of the new arrivals, the weight of their sizeable presence, the bristling animal intensity.
The two men in dark coats had returned.
The maître d’ approached them, but one of the men shoved him aside. The other kept moving towards Duchene at the corner table.
‘What’s happening?’ Eliane asked.
‘They’ve come for me. It’s all right.’ He started to get out of his seat, but the heavyset Gestapo pushed him back into his chair.
‘Frauline,’ he said to Eliane and held out his hand.
She looked at him, shocked. She looked at Duchene, her big eyes trembling.
‘What’s going on?’ he asked in German.
The Gestapo officer ignored him. Placing a large hand around Eliane’s arm, he pulled her violently from the chair. She had just enough time to grab her bag. Her eyes locked onto Duchene’s as she was hauled towards the front door.
One of the officers at the table nearest the door stood up to block the path of the man with Eliane. ‘What is going on? Answer immediately.’
‘Move,’ grunted the Gestapo officer who had remained by the door.
Two more Germans stood. The crowd at the outdoor tables had started to react. Duchene could see a senior officer talking to one of the soldiers stationed outside.
When the Gestapo officer by the door reached into his jacket pocket, several hands moved to sidearms. He took out an identification wallet and flapped it open. ‘Gestapo,’ he said to the room. ‘This woman is an insurgent. She is under arrest.’
‘No,’ Eliane shouted in German, pulling against the man who held her.
Their response was brutal, brief. A meaty slap to her face, and then she was hauled up by both men.
The German officers stepped aside but remained standing. Duchene could do nothing but watch as Eliane was dragged out of the room.
The black Citroën was parked on the street. Waiting at the driver’s door, smoking, was the man with ice-blue eyes. He nodded to Duchene before pulling the passenger door open so his companions could bundle Eliane inside.
In a moment they were gone, and the silent restaurant burst into commotion.
***
Duchene was out on the street. Walking. Walking off the trembling that had seized him in the seconds after the Gestapo left. His whole body was shaking. He’d barely had the sense to drop the money he had onto the table.
He sucked air into his lungs.
He was so sure they hadn’t followed him. Certain of it. He’d left the Gestapo on the street outside his apartment.
Perhaps he was meant to see his observer – a misdirection, so the real pursuers could follow him and Lucien when their guard was down. An obvious misdirection.
He stopped walking and grabbed hold of a lamppost. He tried to discipline his mind, let it track through the morning’s events.
No. He had watched with absolute vigilance as they’d driven away from Saint-Ambroise. It had been too early for much traffic. There had been no one behind them for blocks. And they’d had no way of knowing where he was headed.
That’s not the point.
He was right.
Why did they take the girl?
That was the real question. They’d said she was an insurgent, part of the Resistance, but this was clearly untrue. It was an acceptable explanation that would justify their behaviour to the German officers in the room.
Why did they take the girl?
Maybe they were using him as a harrier dog to flush out their quarry and then they would do their own interrogations.
Interrogations.
His gut welled up. He braced against the lamppost and bent forward.
Nothing came. Not even a dry retch.
A man approached him, concern spreading across his face. Duchene gave a weak wave, an open hand – I’m all right.
He sat at the base of the lamppost and patted his pockets for cigarettes. Nothing.
People were staring at him as they walked wide around him. He must have looked like just another crazy old man – incoherent and troubled, driven mad with age, his mind lost to time.
A waiter emerged from the adjacent café and walked towards Duchene. Waving him off failed, and he squatted at the lamppost. He had a calm, pleasant face. ‘Monsieur, you should sit at one of our tables,’ he said, offering Duchene a hand.
‘I don’t have any money.’
‘I’ll get you something to drink anyway.’
‘Someone has to pay for it.’
‘Don’t worry about that. Come, Monsieur, sit.’
The waiter helped Duchene to his feet and led him over to one of the street-side tables. Within moments, a coffee appeared.
‘Thank you,’ Duchene said.
‘Think nothing of it,’ the waiter replied.
A moment of kindness. Or to keep me from driving away their customers.
He was so riddled with suspicion, so ready to think the worst, it was like a disease in his brain. His every thought was becoming tainted.
He sipped; he took another breath.
His distress at Eliane’s arrest was passing, sliding off him. He had seen men die, explode into steaming pieces, and watched their entrails slide through their hands and into the mud at their feet. He had seen and survived worse.
He could survive this. All else was unimportant save for Marienne, Camille and, if he could manage it, himself.
He took another sip of the coffee. Swallowed. He could let his body guide him forward while his mind wandered.
Kloke was connected to the missing priest. Perhaps he had killed him. There had been a pistol in the hotel room, a Webley. It was common enough, the sidearm of enlisted British soldiers – but it was also one of the weapons Armand had listed as part of the cache. And who was this second man Eliane had described? A man who spoke French.
The Paris Collaborator Page 12