‘I left it at the Plumier’s place, inside our van. Which the owner will say was stolen, incidentally, when they trace it to him. Wise precaution of Romeo’s, wasn’t it… Listen, might Gaston know of a taxi-driver we could trust?’
* * *
They’d given her a meal – soup, bread and cheese, and coffee with a fair amount of brandy in it. Then César had come with her to Ursule’s, in a diminutive gazo-converted Renault van which Gaston’s brother Emil had provided – probably borrowed, but some black-market involvement, she guessed. The brandy might have been a product of it, too. César had produced the bottle from the cupboard in which he also stored his briefcase: and it had been just what she’d needed – for its medicinal effect in general but even more so after the shock of seeing herself in the bathroom mirror – the bruises on her face and worse ones on her neck, eyes like holes in sodden blotting-paper, and the open wound – now clean and iodine-tinted but still not exactly decorative…
At Ursule’s she’d hobbled straight up to her room, anxious to avoid any more explanations – and sympathy, curiosity, etcetera. And she’d be leaving long before any of them were out of bed.
Leave Ursule’s rent money in the kitchen. And Misty’s green scarf.
Her room didn’t seem to have been disturbed, or searched. She wouldn’t have been totally surprised to have found it ransacked. She started by putting out the clothes she’d wear in the morning. A rather well-worn woollen dress, a café-au-lait scarf to cover her hair and most of her face, a skirt that was far from fashionable but would reach well down over her knees. And her old falling-apart cardboard shoes. Clean underwear including the spare bra with its empty pocket. She’d have to take the smart holdall – incongruous with this ensemble – but she could carry the old tweed coat draped over it.
She’d look different, all right. Sad little country bumpkin, dowdier even than she’d been when she’d arrived in Paris and called on Louis.
That was a thought: call on him again, give this case back in exchange for her old one. Or if he’d thrown that one out – probably would have – use a cardboard box with a bit of string round it.
Who’d ask for identity papers from a down-and-out?
Well – they would. If they were looking for a female on the run…
César would be back in his room at the Belle Femme by this time: she hoped, on his knees at the grate, burning her notes. He’d sworn it would be the first thing he’d do. Anything that had a name, an address or a telephone number on it. And the copies of her transmissions, obviously.
The notion of calling on Pierre Cazalet and swapping luggage wasn’t a bad one. Until now she’d only thought of telephoning to ask him to alert the réseau leader at Lannilis to the fact she was on her way – or they were on their way – but he might also be able to get a message sent to Baker Street about recent events. He didn’t have a radio in his own control, she remembered, but relied for communication on his contacts with neighbouring réseaux.
Probably very wise…
A new thought, then: through him, to get word to S.I.S. about the arrangements she’d made with Jacqui. Conceivably by radio, but even better – if he had any way of doing this – by word of mouth, someone en route to London who might stand a better chance of getting through than she did.
That would really be an achievement. Also, though, it told her how slowly her mind was working – that she hadn’t thought of it before. Even an issue as vital as that was.
In the bath – the water was still warmish – she paid special attention to her breasts. Soaping them very gently: thinking how they might have been, poor darlings…
Another thought, though, suddenly. Inspired by the prospect of bed and deep sleep, and then contrarily of the possibility of that sleep being shattered by German shouts, boots heavy on the stairs, her door bursting open and the Gestapo crashing in… It was a possibility. She’d half expected to find the room ransacked anyway: now they’d be hunting her, and if they had a clue or acquired one that this was where she’d been living…
Out of the bath, wrapped in the thin towel, thinking Jacqui? Jacqui’s flat?
No. Leave Jacqui alone, in this sense uncontaminated.
In any case, there was the curfew. Crazy even to think of getting across town… It limited the prospects, rather. Have to stay here, but not in the room. And better not bring Ursule into it, if that could be avoided… The little room behind the kitchen, maybe? Ursule had her desk there, the back door and a W.C. led off it, and there was an old horsehair-stuffed sofa. Sleep fully dressed – in tomorrow’s clothes?
Dried and dressed and carrying her bag and coat, she went carefully and painfully downstairs, saw her rent money still on the kitchen table – with Misty’s scarf… No sound from Ursule’s apartment: none from anywhere. Might have brought a pillow down, she thought, shutting the small room’s door quietly behind her. Wasn’t worth climbing the stairs again, though – neither the effort nor the risk. Roll the coat for a pillow… The back door was locked; if Ursule came in the front way she mightn’t even look in here, wouldn’t know one had been here at all. Further thought, then: get the rent money and the scarf, put them on this desk, to be found in the morning rather than tonight. She did that: crept back in, shut the door again… Getting her legs up on the sofa hurt her knees almost as badly as kneeling on that bloody shovel had.
* * *
She managed several short periods of sleep, and having washed in the kitchen sink was out of the house by four-thirty. It was light by that time, with a milky-bright sky, the hazy early warmth of a very hot day to come. She’d thought she wasn’t going to be able to walk at all, when she’d started easing herself off the sofa, but she’d massaged her knees and exercised them gradually before putting her weight on them, and now she was walking almost normally.
Almost. A scruffy little woman, shuffling up Rue Malouet… With three blocks – if you could call them that, two crossings anyway – before the Gare Rive Gauche, also known as Gare Saint-Sever. Where, for sure – there’d be a heavy police presence, Boches too most likely, all of them up early – or all night even – watching out for any single female traveller or would-be traveller.
The only hope came from the fact that she didn’t look anything like Jeanne-Marie Lefèvre. No-one who looked as she did now could possibly be employed as a parfumeuse. More likely to be seen following a handful of cows down some country lane, wielding a bit of stick…
There was no noticeable police presence. No grey or green uniforms either – or burly louts in plain clothes. Station staff, and a couple of ordinary policemen: the clerk in the ticket kiosk didn’t even look at her. The Paris train left just after five, and at seven-ten she was in a call-booth outside the Gare Saint-Lazare, dialling Pierre Cazalet’s private number.
It rang for some time, and she was thinking he might be out of town. Then: ‘Yes?’
‘May I speak to Pierre Cazalet, please?’
‘May I ask who’s calling?’
‘His cousin, Jeanne-Marie Lefèvre.’
‘One small moment, madame.’
Toutou, she guessed. The giant…
‘Jeanne-Marie, my dear girl, where are you?’
‘Sorry to disturb you at such an hour—’
‘Perfectly all right. Are you in Rouen?’
‘No – I’m at the Gare Saint-Lazare, just arrived.’
‘Don’t tell me you’re throwing up the job?’
‘Well – you must be psychic, Pierre, but unfortunately, I have to. If I could see you – please—’
‘Of course. Come right along, my dear… You can’t really mean it, though – are you really deserting us?’
She hesitated… Then told him quietly, ‘It’s – no joke, Pierre.’
‘I see.’ He’d got the message. ‘Well – breakfast will be waiting for you.’
* * *
It took her less than half an hour. Two Metro stops south to Champs-Elysées Clémenceau, then via Rue la Boétie. Nobody ha
d done more than glance at her. She’d felt dowdy on her previous visit, but now ‘Louis’ was really going to get an eyeful.
Toutou was waiting in the shop, opened the door for her and relocked it immediately behind her… ‘Madame was not followed?’
‘Definitely not.’
‘If you please…’ He ushered her upstairs – into the same room, the one graced by Goering’s portrait. Pierre Cazalet hurried forward to embrace her… ‘Angel!’
‘Louis…’
‘Come, sit down. You can put the coffee on now, Toutou… Oh, my God.’ Peering at her: ‘My first thought was that you’d been at a jumble sale, but I see now – an accident?’
‘If you call the Gestapo an accident.’
‘Oh, my dear—’
‘Pierre, I have to get out.’ She sat down – gratefully – on a Louis Quinze fauteuil. ‘Could you contact the réseau leader at Lannilis for me?’
‘Vidor. Yes. Not directly, but – yes, I can…’ He perched himself on a stool in front of her… ‘So – tell me?’
‘I’m on the run. I escaped yesterday – from a moving car, it caused some of this… Well – I may not get much further, but I’m going to try. There’ll be two of us – my chief from Rouen is with me – will be, he’s going to follow me, get off where I get off – Vidor’s people wouldn’t know him, you see, wouldn’t—’
‘What if you don’t get that far?’
‘What about him, you mean. Well, he’d go elsewhere. Change trains at Rennes, perhaps. He has contacts in the south, as an alternative. But as we’ve agreed it, we’ll both be on this morning’s train to Brest – disembarking at Landerneau, of course. I don’t know about the moon-state, when a gunboat’s due… Oh, you could tell them – in case they’re talking to London – this man is Michel Rossier, code-name César.’
‘You said—’
He was goggling at her…
‘Something the matter?’
‘Something.’ Pressing the fingertips of both hands to his face: she could smell his aftershave powder… He’d shut his eyes. ‘Something – my God, yes… Angel, there’s something, all right…’
‘What-’
‘Code-name César, nom-de-plume Michel Rossier. In Lyon, about three weeks ago – he died under torture. I heard only yesterday, I have to get it passed to London. Oh, my Angel…’
19
Westward out of Montparnasse: four hours later, time to draw breath – the train picking up its rhythm as it left the Seine behind. She had a bench to herself, near the front of one of the open carriages: wooden-slatted benches, their waist-high backs forming the only partitions. A thin, elderly man and his huge wife faced her: behind her, about five booths away, César had an old priest on his left and a woman opposite with two small children. Across the aisle from him was a man with one arm: sparse grey hair and lean, aristocratic features. His name was Jean-Paul, and she’d gathered he was a full-time pimp – from a remark Toutou had made. Pierre Cazalet frowning at him warningly – Spare our Angel’s sensibilities…
Pierre had been marvellous, though. She put one hand down, touched the wooden seat: aware that marvels didn’t always last, that things could still blow up in one’s face. A police inspection now, for instance: Your papers, madame?
Could happen. But if it did it would be only a chance thing: she no longer believed they’d be looking for her. If they had been, she’d never have got out of Rouen. Now, she thought, she had about as much chance as you ever had: you got stopped, or you didn’t. If you did and your papers weren’t in order – well, bad luck… The best thing was – as always – not to think about it, simply to be oneself, concentrate on that… Jeanne-Marie Lefèvre, going home to ma-in-law and l’enfant. Having failed to get a job, and on top of that having fallen in the Metro, hurting herself badly and having her travelling-bag run off with, with all her papers in it. Ration card, everything: God alone knew what she’d do for money now, what she and the child would live on. Beg – or at best, scrub floors. Meanwhile, in telling the story, shed tears…
Tears had helped last time, she remembered.
She’d fielded a very dangerous ball, at the Montparnasse station. She’d spotted that César didn’t have his briefcase with him – only a holdall that couldn’t possibly have contained it. Whereas both she and Pierre had expected him to have brought it with him. Actually it had been Pierre’s logical expectation, and she’d agreed with it – having forgotten the extent of César’s carelessness, the possibility he might have left such an object just lying around for anyone to find.
Pierre had told Toutou, ‘Have Jean-Paul take care of the briefcase. Make that his special care. He’s to bring back whatever luggage or other appurtenances our man may have, but the briefcase is of paramount importance, tell him.’
Jean-Paul’s other job was to identify César to those who’d be boarding the train to deal with him. Rosie was to identify him to Jean-Paul initially and would from there on be in the clear, wouldn’t need to speak to anyone or even look at them, or have any idea that anything at all was happening. Little country mouse running home with her tail between her legs: disembarking then at Landerneau – César would have been taken care of by then – and the rest would be up to Vidor.
Who’d said he couldn’t help, with César. Pierre had shrugged as he put the phone down: ‘Better to come straight out with it, than try against the odds… Especially as I have another string to my bow.’
To start with – before breakfast – he’d listened intently to all she’d had to tell him, which had included the fact that she’d told César about him…
‘Exactly what, about me?’
‘That you were providing my cover – your name and code-name – the fact you’re a friend of Goering’s—’
‘His reaction to that?’
‘Surprise, and keen interest. As you’d expect. It came up because he’d asked me what my cover was – which as my boss he was entitled to know, obviously. But I’m dreadfully sorry—’
‘It’s not necessarily fatal. In fact – Angel, I’d put money on it that he won’t have made any report, as yet. At any rate, not on the subject of yours truly. First, I haven’t been – approached, questioned, investigated – and second, I’d have been told well in advance if any such thing were contemplated. I have very well-placed and highly reliable contacts, Angel. Including – well, doesn’t matter – but if there’d been talk about me even in the most secret and – oh, the most elevated circles—’
‘You’d know.’
‘Yes. I would. For a long time now it’s been essential to my survival.’
He’d become quite calm, by this time. Having realized that he could retain command of the situation.
Rosie nodding: ‘And if he hasn’t passed that on, you’re saying—’
‘Yes, the same would I think apply to all the rest of it. Piling it all up – for a grand slam, you might say. A fat dossier to drop on his general’s desk. For his own advantage – one might guess – but also he wouldn’t want them arresting people prematurely, scaring the rest away.’
‘Must have arranged the ambush, though?’
‘He’d have had no option – except to let Romeo fly away. And on that score – listen, here’s how it looks to me. I may be jumping to false conclusions but – listen, and tell me what you think… He told you he’d heard you got away, he was waiting for you to show up. I think that’s nonsense – his information would come from his own people, not from some – rumour, out of the countryside… On the other hand, from what you’ve told me I’d strongly suspect they arranged your escape. Too easy for you, otherwise, too grossly inefficient for them – in those departments especially they aren’t stupid. Try these questions: why put you with Erdos, why bother moving you from one cell to another? Why fail to put you in handcuffs? Why only one escort to two prisoners? Why unlocked car doors and a route with tight corners so they had to slow down to that extent? Why no shots and no pursuit?’
‘All right.’
‘Erdos would have been acting under their orders – a bargain for his life, maybe. Bet your life, Angel, they wanted you out. And why? Well, he’s making use of you now, isn’t he? Why else, this day-trip to Brest? To get into the escape route and whoever’s handling it – all it can be. Uh?’
‘Shades of La Chatte…’
‘Who’s she?’
‘They faked her escape. But it was her idea.’
‘Never heard of her. But listen – what if you weren’t supposed to have been taken prisoner in the first place? This is on the same track, you see. If he’d arranged that you’d be allowed to get away, he’d have assumed you had. And there again, in his shoes I’d have wanted Romeo caught, not shot dead – and I’d have wanted that Lysander on the ground – complete with this Romeo-replacement – huh? I think they cocked it up, Angel – if you’ll allow the expression. I think he assumed you were on the run – you’d have run back to your Organizer, wouldn’t you? Then he must have discovered – Angel, are we getting somewhere?’
‘So the interruption – when they were on the point of doing this dreadful thing to me—’
‘How would he have discovered you were there, I wonder?’
‘From his own people – as you say. Whoever they may be… If he’d called in – here, Paris, the operation would have been run from here, wouldn’t it – transferred from Lyon to head office – he might have begged them God’s sake order them to let her out – especially if he’s S.D. – or S.S. even, recruited to S.D., and the Rouen operation’s now in Gestapo hands.’
She’d paused, remembering. Only yesterday, for Christ’s sake… ‘It was good timing, Pierre.’
‘My poor Angel… There are times one can hope there’s such a thing as hell-fire.’
‘Too good for them. I’m not sure there’s anything—’
Into the Fire Page 33