‘An old wound.’ The left leg: gazing down at it. ‘Knee won’t bend. So if you don’t mind…’
‘Old soldier, eh?’ She smiled at Rosie, and giving her her cordial, addressed her as mam’selle. Jake said, after he’d paid and she’d left them, ‘You must be dying to take the weight off, Suzie.’
‘Well. Since you mention it.’ Pointing with her chin towards a sign that read Toilette. ‘Might take a break in there.’
‘Good idea.’
‘You don’t know how good.’
Watching her go. He was all right, having anointed some shrubbery flanking one of those allées, earlier. Sipping his tasteless beer, keeping himself to himself and ten minutes later watching her come back. ‘All right?’
‘You should try it. But nothing to the relief when you turned up!’
‘They have to be either stupid or new to the job, don’t they, setting up a checkpoint with nothing to stop people just ducking out of it? I was thinking, too, if there was anything in your notion of them being on the lookout for a pianist, why should they have picked on that particular train?’
‘If an informer had got it slightly wrong?’ Blinking at him. To any interested observer’s eyes, this could have been an episode in a flirtation: the quality of her smile, and the way he was concentrating on her. ‘See – first an intercepted signal – one that went or came through the pianist in Lyon—’
‘Or Wiggy?’
‘No. Discount that. Really, I think one has to.’
‘All right. But—’
‘Intercepted signal first, some unidentifiable informer then told to keep his or her ear to the ground – before long gets to think he/she’s on to something?’
‘Monique Déclan?’
‘But he put me on the early morning train. If she featured in this at all she’d have known that – if she’d have given two hoots anyway – and hadn’t been miles away, wherever it is they live. Léguevin? Any case, he told me he never spoke to her about anything except boreholes and farm machinery, so forth – might say he was really giving me the same warning that you did?’
‘I’d say he was just telling you the plain, honest truth. There doesn’t have to be any informer. Darned nuisance, is all.’
‘Yes. Sorry. I’ll learn, won’t I. This is only rhubarb-rhubarb talk, anyway.’ Smiling into his eyes again. ‘It’s a foul drink, this. Are you married, by the way?’
‘I was, but we broke up.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t know why you should be. How about you? Well, no, surely – but you could be engaged?’
‘I was married. Late lamented got himself shot down in flames – a year ago. Actually not lamented all that much, truth is we wouldn’t have lasted.’ She’d been watching the exit – whispered now, ‘Our friend on the door is being relieved. No – better than that, believe it or not, Jean—’
‘Opening up?’
‘They are!’
‘Settles that, then. But let’s give it a few minutes now…’
* * *
Old Rosie had described the incident rather more sketchily than that, mostly in the taxi that had picked us up in the Rue Gambetta, but I was storing it in memory pretty well as I thought I’d write it, rough first draft to go on the laptop that evening. In fact maybe before bathing and changing and picking her up for dinner, since there’d be more later, as well as notes to be made on earlier stuff.
Time now five twenty-five. We’d be at l’Ambassade in just minutes.
‘Quite some day, Rosie, your first one in the field. Even if you demolished two or three galettes. Must have been just about on your knees.’
‘I might have been. Write it that way if you want. More to the point, though, I’m looking forward to a long soak in a hot tub right now!’
‘And you’re entitled. Problem is, having such a lot of ground to cover in rather a short time. I’m sorry.’
‘My fault at least as much as yours.’ She’d yawned. ‘Heavens. Tub and snooze between now and seven-thirty!’
‘Like to make it eight-thirty?’
‘You know, that isn’t a bad idea?’
‘Eight-thirty, then. By which time I’ll have today’s cardinal points on disk. Winding that last scene up, incidentally – from the station you and Jake would have gone to the house on Place Marengo and met Berthe Devrèque?’
‘Yes. Large blonde woman, was our Berthe. Quite pleasant. About forty-five, seemed rather keen on Jake, I thought. I was quite impressed with him myself, in the course of the afternoon he’d grown on one. I mean, as a nice guy, kindred spirit, one to take notice of and rely on – which to a beginner was – reassuring. It must have been on the way to Berthe’s place, I think, that he said that while he didn’t believe the business at the station could have had anything to do with any search for a replacement pianist – it was on the air waves they’d be looking for me, not on the ground – one couldn’t be too careful, and keen as he was on getting back into regular contact with Baker Street, this Saturday night might be rushing it a bit; he didn’t want to look back on events and think, should have bloody waited… So – best to lie low for a couple of nights, make my start on the Sunday – and as discussed earlier, from a fair distance out of town, best achieved by using Voreux and his van. As it happened he was seeing him next day, meeting at the Saturday market in Carcassonne, could thus set it up without any special prior contact. A rendezvous for let’s say Sunday noon – but where… Well, maybe at Revel, which for me would mean a couple of hours’ bike ride – south-east of town, on the D2. Or make it a bit later in the day – say three p.m. Berthe would have a road map. And tomorrow, Saturday, I could take it easy, have a look around the town maybe – with Berthe as guide, if she felt up to it. Voreux’s van, though, was off-white with Marc’s initials MV and Poissonnier on its sides in blue: ‘Suzie, tell you what – at Revel, three p.m., you might have had a puncture, be sitting on the right-hand verge looking helpless?’
5
Saturday, late afternoon: Voreux slowed as he passed the church and entered the village of Villerouge-Ségure. It had taken him more than an hour through the lanes and broken country from Carcassonne, where he’d spent a couple of hours in Jean Samblat’s company, and done good business in the market before that. He’d sold all the crabs he’d picked up the evening before at Canet-Plage, might have been heading back there in the hope of restocking except that (a) it would have been a long haul, (b) have left him facing a much longer one in the morning, and (c) he had plenty of jars of salted anchovies here in Villerouge, more than enough to justify his being on the road tomorrow.
The anchovies were hand-processed in Collioure by women who spent their whole lives at it. Margins weren’t as good as with fresh crabs and lobsters, but much as one liked to show good profit this had never been a purely commercial enterprise and never would be, had to look as if he was busting his guts to make it so, was all. For tomorrow he’d put in a stack of empty fish-boxes as well as the crate of jars, and if he was stopped could say he’d been doing great business. Sundays usually weren’t days for trading, more for cleaning out and preparation for the week ahead; but this trip might well extend itself into Monday – having picked up the new pianist, he was to transport her eastward or northeastward as far as she insisted.
And feed her. He had a cooked chicken, bread and a bottle of white wine in the back, in a fish-box; Samblat had not only suggested this, but paid for it – in the market, black-market prices too. She’d have brought funds with her from London, of course, and presumably he was feeling flush. Seemed also to have a high regard for his new pianist: Marc had asked him whether he thought she knew her business, and he’d snapped almost angrily yes, she most certainly did – adding then with a smile, ‘Despite being young and extremely attractive.’
‘That a fact, Jean?’
‘See for yourself, then you tell me!’
‘Interesting. But you’re saying she calls the shots?’
‘As far as her p
iano-playing’s concerned, yes. On this trip and others like it, it’s for her to decide where you stop and for how long or where you drop her and pick her up again. She’s an experienced pianist and has clear ideas on what risks she will or won’t take; effectively you’re her chauffeur and escort, enabling her to do the job she has to do.’
‘How young is she?’
‘Couple of years older than you, as it happens, but you’d never guess it. Might work in her favour – no Boche would see her as old enough to have the skills she does have.’
‘Intriguing.’
‘Well – you know the rules on that one. SOE’s and mine. I’d imagine you’d be banging your head on a brick wall anyway, but – don’t try, Marc. I’m serious now. If she felt harassed in that way—’
‘Don’t worry.’ He’d shrugged. ‘I’ve better uses for my head than banging it on walls.’
Although walls had a tendency to crumble, in his experience. One accepted Samblat’s point of principle, at least when it concerned a fellow réseau member; his private reservation was only that – well, that – what one might call the crumble factor. Gabrielle for instance had told him a few days ago when at her insistence he’d taken off his glasses that he looked like an assassin, anyone would know at a glance he was trouble. She’d been joking, of course, or at least half-joking, had said it with that certain smile, implication being that ‘trouble’ could be fun to have around. She was – well, really special; so much so that initially he’d assumed she was out of his reach, only more recently wondered whether crumbling might not be on the cards.
Might have chanced it this evening, he thought. Made for the Vérisoins’ place, maybe got lucky, and had a shorter trip to Revel in the morning.
Dangerous at weekends, though. Too late now, in any case.
Braking, then taking the corner to the right, out of the narrow village street into a steeper slot that was more like a drain than any kind of thoroughfare. Scabrous house-fronts in varying shades of grey, dun and greenish mould, stone and cracked plaster interspersed with sagging timber, patches of corrugated iron, here and there rusty iron balconies you wouldn’t have dared set foot on, and the upper storeys leaning inward to leave only a jagged streak of sky up there. Marc bearing left where the slot levelled in the approach to the old wreck of a building some of which he rented – four rooms of which only one was rain-proof, toilette out back, large cellar-like ground floor that was cool enough for ice to last a day or two even in high summer.
Another asset was this space beside it which had been heaped with rubble but which he’d cleared to provide a parking space for the van.
Van’s engine chugging powerfully into silence. Sounded powerful, in fact had only about half the power it had had before on Samblat’s insistence Alain Déclan had converted it from petrol to charcoal, the réseau being low in funds at that time, Marc’s black-market petrol no longer affordable.
He’d opened his front door – a padlock and chain – and had left the van’s doors open, there being fish-boxes and a large galvanised tank to bring in; had gone inside to check on how much ice remained in the old bath-tub. Not much: later he’d hose it out, and would need to get down to Perpignan for fresh supplies. Monday or Tuesday maybe…
Fit the partition before picking up this girl?
He’d made it out of fish-boxes; it fitted across the cargo-space so that any nosy gendarme peering in through the rear doors would think he was looking at a van full of fish, whereas there was room for two or at a pinch three passengers crouching between it and the cab. A girl on her own – with a blanket or two – would find it comfortable enough.
On the other hand, she could just as well keep him company in the cab. She’d have her own cover story, obviously, but if she was as attractive as Jean had said, gendarmes on a checkpoint would hardly bother to ask for one. Most likely a nod and a wink, and wave him through.
A thump from outside, and a shout of ‘Hey, Voreux – you there?’
Knowing he was here, obviously. Old swine must have been lying in wait for him out there somewhere. For what purpose would no doubt emerge within the next few minutes – chit-chat first, then what he’d really come for. Hoping to cadge a fish supper, maybe. In which case, hard luck. Marc moved into his doorway, stood there looking out at sergeant de ville Mico Hoeigrand, who’d just leant or rather crashed his bike against the van. Thickset, greying, with a sallow complexion, thin moustache and even thinner hair: complaining as he picked his way over the uneven ground, ‘My third call on you, is this. Where’ve you been all day?’
‘Carcassonne. Market-day. As usual.’ He’d removed his glasses, was demisting the lenses with the ball of a thumb. ‘Why?’
‘You’re wanted in Narbonne, that’s why!’
‘Wanted?’ It took a moment to understand. ‘You don’t mean wanted by your crowd?’
Hoeigrand nodding slowly – from only a couple of feet away, as if to block him from making a dash for it – which he could have done easily if there’d been any point in doing so. He was taller than Hoeigrand, as well as slimmer, harder, fitter. Well – young. His only disability in fact was his eyesight, while Hoeigrand’s included a paunch and disproportionately short legs. Telling him in his croaky tones, in reply to a genuinely puzzled exclamation of ‘But what for?’: ‘All I know is I’m to bring you in. And starting this late – well, if you need a wash, or somesuch—’
‘I certainly do, and there’s stuff needs to be unloaded from the van – work to do inside here, what’s more. Who’s sending for me anyway, who gave you such an order?’ Shake of the head then – ‘Doesn’t matter, does it. I tell you what, though – ask ’em can I stop by next time I’m passing. Tuesday, say. They’ll only want to see my papers are up to date – driving licence, road permits, rubbish of that kind…’ A pause, and a new thought: ‘Anyway how, bring me in?’
‘In that.’ The van. ‘Dropping my bike off at Jonquières en route. We’ll either come back together, or if they’re holding you—’
‘Holding me… And fifty kilometres in my gazo – who pays for that?’
‘Forty-five kilometres at most. And how else? Look, it’s just the way things are – slightly upside-down right at this moment. Argue the toss when we get there, lad – with them – if they’re in a mood to listen. Come on now, what’s to be offloaded?’
No partition. Hoeigrand would just about wet himself if he saw that. Jean’s girl would have to ride up front.
* * *
Through Talairan – after the stop at Hoeigrand’s cottage at Jonquières – turning right on to the metalled road at Talairan, and then through the larger village of St-Laurent-de-la-Cabrarisse; having by that time clocked up twenty kilometres and knowing for a fact that the distance from La Cabrarisse to Narbonne was another thirty-four, total therefore fifty-four. He didn’t bother to mention it. Hoeigrand, who as sergeant de ville was in fact an ordinary though senior gendarme responsible for law and order in a whole group of villages back there, was not outstandingly intelligent, tended to have his own rudimentary ideas and stick to them. Asking Marc at about this stage whether it was really true he had no clue as to why the Narbonne commissariat might want him.
‘Absolutely. Unless as I said it’s to check my papers. Otherwise I suppose I’m going to be accused of something. Denounced for farting in church, perhaps.’
‘Be attending Mass tomorrow, will you?’
Almost as if he thought that could be it. More likely, just not thinking at all. Marc shrugged, slowing for the crossroads at Ste-Marie, and shortly afterwards trundling across the Ausson. Very little water in it, especially considering the time of year. If they were going to hold him overnight as Hoeigrand had suggested they might – and he might know more about this than he was letting on, going so far as to advise him to bring a razor and other necessities – well, God’s sake, what about that girl? Because they wouldn’t lock a man up in the evening only to let him go after breakfast next day; and tomorrow being Sunday – well,
leave one for the whole weekend in the bloody lock-up, even? Wouldn’t put it past them. No way to let Samblat know, either: certainly couldn’t telephone him from a gendarmerie poste, even if they let one near a telephone. Not Déclan either. One had those numbers in one’s head for emergencies, Déclan’s in particular not to be used for anything short of a real disaster scenario.
Like We’re blown, best run for it…
Ring Gabi?
She’d do it for him all right – pick the girl up, or tell her what had happened – if she was in a position to, she’d do it. She’d done something rather similar for him before he’d even known her: in fact that was how he’d met her. But there again, weekends were dangerous, chances being that Charles-Henri would be around.
The new girl would have to look after herself, if the Narbonne police did hold him overnight. Obviously she’d cope – realise there’d been some cock-up and push on solo, do what she had to do.
No reason to assume they would hold one, though. But then no reason they should be having one brought in, either.
At least, no trivial reason.
Frightening thought, that. Denunciations weren’t all that uncommon, in this day and age. Some, of course, could be demonstrated as false within just minutes – if they were false, the boys in blue or the DST only following them up in order to keep their own noses clean. But – well, touch wood. Grasping it, sweat on his palms on the jolting wheel; trying not to think Gestapo, even?
It wouldn’t have to be anything of recent origin. A denunciation could date from one’s activities at some much earlier stage.
But these were the outskirts of Narbonne, at last. He told Hoeigrand, startling him out of his long silence, ‘You’ll have to direct me, from here on.’
‘Huh?’ Had apparently been dozing. Blinking, staring round… ‘Yes. Course. Keep on as we are, over the canal – in a few minutes – then to the right. The Palais des Archevèques will be up ahead on your left, continue past it and – and I’ll tell you when to turn again.’ Shaking his grey head and yawning. ‘I’d have thought with all your knocking around you’d know this town.’
Staying Alive Page 8