by Colin Forbes
'The kitchen. Then we can have more coffee ...'
He perched on a stool at an island unit after taking off his trench coat. Underneath he wore an English business suit, a blue bird's-eye. The kitchen was a different world from the living room which was furnished with heavy, old-fashioned furniture; it was equipped with the latest facilities, including a hood over the cooker. He opened his onslaught when she had placed a brown mug of steaming coffee in front of him, had settled herself on a stool facing her guest.
'How many people knew of your friendship with Henri?'
'No one really. I told you I have few friends.'
'What about your mother?'
'Not her.' She made a move. 'We don't see eye to eye on many things. I never let her know what happened. She would have criticized my choice of a barman.' She warmed her hands round her mug, shapely hands. 'I did think it funny that Henri was just a barman - he seemed so intelligent. When I said so he shrugged, said he was travelling round France to get experience of the world.'
'Are you actually saying that no one else in the whole world knew about you and Henri?'
'Yes. When we went out he asked me to choose places to eat I'd never been before. I didn't ask him why.'
'Someone must have betrayed Henri to the DST. From what you've said you're the only one who could have done that.'
Her face flushed. She stared at Newman as though unable to believe her ears. Newman stared back as she continued.
'How much did they pay you for your services?'
Her hand tightened on the handle of her mug. For a moment he thought he was going to get the contents in his face and prepared to duck.
'You swine!' she hissed in her well modulated voice. 'I could kill you for what you've just said. Why? in the name of God, why do you say such terrible things?'
'Because you're the obvious betrayer. Making up to him, gaining his confidence - when all the time you were an agent of the DST...'
She slipped off her stool, ran round the island. On the way she tipped the contents of her mug into the sink. She was slimly built, almost as tall as Newman, wore a miniskirt which exposed her excellent legs. She came at him like a tigress.
He stood upright just in time as she aimed the mug to smash it against his head. He grabbed her arms, forced them to her sides, surprised at her strength, her agility. She aimed her knee at his groin, he took the thrust in the side of his leg, held her prisoner until she stopped struggling, breathing heavily.
'And you're a damned good actress, I'll give you that,' he goaded her.
She dipped her titian-maned head, prepared to butt him under the chin. He swivelled her through a hundred and eighty degrees, holding her arms against her sides, his head pushing against hers, pressing himself into her back. A faint whiff of perfume drifted to his nostrils. She relaxed, unable to fight any more. Her voice was controlled now, loaded with venom.
'Get out of here,' she ordered him. 'I never want to see you again. I thought you were a friend ...'
'I am.' he said quietly, his mouth close to her ear, 'but I had to be sure of you. To test you to breaking point. I believe you now, Isabelle. Sorry I upset you, but I repeat, I had to be certain of you.'
She relaxed in his arms completely. Her tone held a hint of amusement.
'Maybe you'd better let me go. If anyone came in and found us like this they'd think we were lovers.'
'Not a bad idea - as far as I'm concerned. But I'm here for professional reasons. Behave? If I let you go?'
'If I must.'
She turned round and gave him a glowing smile, tears in her eyes. She collapsed with emotion, buried her head against his chest. He stroked her hair as she shook with relief, let her get it out of her system. She let go of him, ran to the sink, turned on the tap, splashed her face with huge quantities of cold water. Drying herself, she opened a drawer, took out a brush and attacked her mane with the aid of a mirror on the wall.
When she had finished smartening her appearance, Newman pushed his mug of coffee over the island.
I've had enough. The rest is yours.'
She drank greedily, watching him over the rim as she had done in the Bar Rococo drinking wine. When she had emptied the mug she asked her question.
'Who, then, do you think could have betrayed Henri - if he was doing something against the French state?'
'Tell me why he chose to work in the Bar Miami.' Newman suggested, folding his arms, leaning against the island.
'He never said. But I met him there often, sometimes sitting at a table while I waited for him to come off duty. A lot of French officers in the Army use that bar. I had the impression they interested him.'
'He asked them questions?'
'Sometimes, yes. Innocuous questions as though he was being companionable. Were they on leave? Things like that.' She frowned. 'I've just remembered something. Shortly before the two DST men arrested him he was serving two French lieutenants. I was out of sight but close. You know how in a crowded bar for no reason there is sometimes a brief hush in the conversation?'
'I know exactly what you mean.'
'That happened on that night. I heard one lieutenant tell his fellow officer he was with a specialist unit, that soon he'd be in Paris - and not on leave. Henri was intrigued by that remark.'
'So am I. But how could you tell Henri was intrigued?'
She looked wistful, had perched herself on a counter top, her long legs swinging.
'Because by then I knew him well. His every little gesture. Henri was polishing a glass. He was very quick. When the lieutenant made that remark for a second Henri stopped polishing the glass, then polished it furiously.'
'I see.'
Newman saw more than that. He thought he'd learned how Carey had been detected. A trifle too much enthusiasm talking to officers, asking the odd question. Someone had reported his interest.
'Let's go sit on the couch in the living room,' Isabelle suggested, her eyes smoky.
Newman frowned as she switched off the kitchen light before opening the door, followed her. She seemed to be interested in him. Business and pleasure didn't mix - and he sensed that despite her outer poise she was in an emotional state. Little wonder after what he had put her through.
He kept close to her to avoid furniture until he became accustomed to the dark. Isabelle wandered over to one of the tall windows, glanced down through the curtains, stiffened. Newman saw how her silhouette froze.
'What is it?' he said and joined her quickly.
'Those two men standing in that shop doorway. They are the DST men who took Henri away.'
'How can you be sure?'
'The way the tall one moves. He turned to the shorter man to say something. It is them, Robert. I may call you Robert?'
Newman was staring down into the street. He knew the temperature outside was arctic, compounded by the wind-chill factor. So why should two men take up a position opposite the entrance to the apartment block? A couple of friends who had met by chance? Then they'd head for the nearest bar. Newman looked up and down the narrow street. Fifty yards away from where the men stood a solitary Renault was parked. The shorter of the waiting couple thrust gloved hands into the pockets of his wide-lapelled trenchcoat, huddled his shoulders, stared at the entrance opposite.
'I know it's them,' Isabelle insisted. 'I was close to them when they came up to Henri. That's how they were dressed then.'
'Does anyone at the Bar Miami know your address?'
'The chief barman. I left a silk scarf there once. I phoned him, he said they'd found it. He asked for my address -there was an expensive scarf ring attached to it. He made me repeat my address when I went to collect it.'
'And he'd know you were Henri's girlfriend?'
'He could hardly avoid realizing that.'
'You have to leave here. Tonight. Can you go out to Arcachon and stay with your mother? I'll drive you there. Do you want to pack? Urgently?'
'So many questions, Robert...'
'My friends call me
Bob. Now, can you?'
'Yes. But not with my mother. I have a sister with an apartment there where I could stay - Lucille, my sister, is abroad and left me the keys. The advertising agency is having a slack time and owes me two weeks' holiday. I could phone them, say I'm leaving for San Trop. I can pack in ten minutes, maybe less.'
'Is there some way we can get to my car in the alley without using the main entrance? Those aren't real DST men - they're far more dangerous. DST don't go round murdering people.'
'Yes, Bob. There is a back way direct into the alley. I have a key.'
'Next point. Have you two sharp knives? I suppose you wouldn't have a French coat I could wear?'
'There is one which Henri left. He was about your size. In a wardrobe in the bedroom. And a hat, if you want one. We'll be lucky if that fits.'
Closing the door, when they were inside the bedroom, she switched on the light, went to a huge, old-fashioned wardrobe, took out a dark overcoat, a trilby hat - both shabby. Carey's method of passing for a Frenchman. Newman slipped on the coat, pulled up the collar. Rather tight under the arms but it would pass in the dark. He rammed the hat on his head, pulled the brim low over his forehead.
'It's not big enough,' Isabelle decided.
'Big enough at night. Now, the knives.'
She was a girl who never wasted time asking unnecessary questions, which impressed Newman. In the kitchen she opened a drawer, stood back, invited him to take his pick. The wooden box divided into compartments fitted snugly inside the drawer contained an amazing selection. He chose two short-bladed knives with strong handles, slid them blade first carefully inside the coat pockets.
'Show me how to get out of the rear entrance. While I'm away do your packing. Oh, I suppose you haven't an empty bottle of wine?'
'Only in the trash can. I could wash and clean it thoroughly.'
'I'll be drinking out of it. Fill it with water ...'
She led him down to the rear entrance, unlocked the door and he found himself in the alley leading to the main street.
A raw wind slashed at his face. Newman cowered under his floppy hat, staggering slowly along the sidewalk, waving the bottle with his left hand. The wind grew in fury, sheets of newspaper flew in the air, Newman leaned against a wall, tilted the bottle, drank from the neck. He stumbled into the deserted street closer to the parked Renault.
Behind him the two men in trench coats peered out at his erratic progress. Newman rammed the hat tighter over his head as the wind almost blew it away. He spun round in a drunken circle. The trench coat men had retreated deep into the shelter of their doorway.
He lurched across to the car, sprawled on the cobbles alongside the rear wheel of the Renault. Letting go of the bottle, he grasped the first knife, plunged the blade deep into the tyre, the handle protruding close to the cobbles in the direction the car would move. Swiftly he gripped the second knife, repeated his performance, driving the second knife alongside the first. The wind was blowing away the bottle when he grabbed it by the neck, staggered to his feet. No sign of Trenchcoats.
He began his weaving walk back the way he had come, watching the doorway from under the brim of his hat. Still no sign of the enemy. He resisted the temptation to move faster, arrived at the entrance to the alley, tottered out of sight.
Now he ran to the rear entrance in the alley, took the key Isabelle had handed him from his trouser pocket, and within a minute was back inside her mother's apartment. She was standing by the window in the living room, turning round as he entered.
'God! You just made it. They both peered out as you made the alley...'
'You're supposed to be packing.'
'I'm ready. Can we make a run for it now?'
'Now...'
She wrapped a silk shawl round her head, concealing her titian mane. A blue coat buttoned to her neck completed the transformation. As protection against the wind she had changed her mini for a knee-length blue skirt.
'My trenchcoat.' Newman reminded her.
'Packed in my case, plus Henri's shaving kit and the pyjamas he left behind - hidden where my mother would not find them. It will get you through the night in Arcachon...'
The alley was deserted as they hurried to the parked Citroen in the courtyard. They'd have the description of his car, Newman thought grimly - and its registration number. Plenty of time to record that while de Forge took him to see the punishment well. Undoubtedly passed to the phoney DST men. Best to assume the worst.
He drove out of the alley with Isabelle beside him. She was careful not to look towards the doorway sheltering the watchers as Newman swung the vehicle in the opposite direction. He glanced back, saw the two men running for the parked Renault.
The two men dived into the front of the car. Behind its wheel the taller man started up the engine, released the brake, pressed his foot down. The car sped forward maybe a dozen yards and then the rear wheel's tyre collapsed as the knives penetrated it. The driver cursed as the car slewed towards the sidewalk, the wheel rims grinding on the cobbles.
Newman saw what happened in his mirror, increased speed along the deserted street as the wind hammered at the windscreen. With Isabelle's guidance, he soon left the outer suburbs behind and was racing along the N650 -towards the Atlantic, towards Arcachon.
'Has your mother friends in Bordeaux who could let enquirers know her address?' Newman asked.
'No. She doesn't like her city neighbours, lets them know nothing of her affairs. No one knows she has relatives in Arcachon. No one can say anything.'
It seemed she would be safe in Arcachon, Newman hoped. He was also wondering whether the police had acted on his anonymous call to the Prefecture in Bordeaux. His call had been made from the Post Office before driving on to the Bar Rococo.
He had told them about the CRS Berliet truck crashing into the gorge, had given them an idea of the location. Whose bodies would they find inside?
Chapter Seven
General Charles de Forge sat in his high-backed chair, his hands rested on the arms as he fired questions at Major Lamy, standing facing him across the large desk. It was early evening, the only illumination a desk lamp which threw Lamy's saturnine face into sharp relief.
'Most unfortunate about-that Berliet truck. Has Newman got away?'
'Only for the moment, sir. We're watching the airport, the main rail stations - a small army of our men in plain clothes. All with his description.'
'And the Berliet?'
'Dealt with. The bodies removed to the usual place.'
'And that spy? Henri Bayle, wasn't that his name? I understand he had a mistress.'
'Her apartment is being watched. I hope to have news of her detention. After being questioned - if necessary under pressure - she will be disposed of.'
De Forge stood up, walked round his desk, hands clasped behind his back. He paced slowly up and down the long room.
'It is the details which have to be attended to. Never forget that, Lamy.'
'What I don't understand, General, is why you agreed to see Newman, then changed your mind about him.'
'Because I have a fingertip feeling about people. I hoped an article in Der Spiegel, angled my way, would add to the growing anxiety and confusion in Germany. Later, he seemed hostile. My decision, as always, was logical. Now, I will address my troops ...'
The tank commanders assembled in the drill hall had been served a good meal. De Forge often quoted maxims of Napoleon. One of his favourites was 'an army marches on its stomach'. A loud cheer went up as de Forge appeared in full uniform on the raised platform at the end of the hall. Then the chant began.
'Pour France ... Pour France ... Pour France,..'
De Forge silenced them by raising his right hand, palm open, shoulder high. The soldiers, who had jumped to their feet at his appearance, sat down and leaned forward. At the end of the front row a certain Lieutenant Berthier, lean and clean-shaven with fair hair cut very short, watched his commander intently.
'Soldiers of France,'
de Forge began in his magnetic voice, 'the time is approaching for action. Paris - not Berlin - will become the capital of the New Europe. It will be your skill, your courage which will bring all this about. And you are not alone - your help in bringing in the harvest assures us of the support of the farmers. And beyond that we have our friends in high places - in Paris. You are the iron barrier against which the foreign scum will break their unwashed skulls ...'
He had to pause as his audience broke into a thunder of cheering and applause. He continued speaking for another half hour, a natural orator of compelling power. His climax, which lifted off the roof, was typical.
'None of this is for me, as you well understand. It is for France...!'
He acknowledged the three minutes of wild applause with a solemn, aloof expression, hands clasped behind his back, then walked off the platform, disappearing through a side door where Major Lamy waited.
'They would die for you, my General.' Lamy commented.
'They may have to. Now, drive me to the villa of Mademoiselle Jean Burgoyne. I need some active relaxation.'
De Forge was married but rarely visited his wife, Josette. She lived in an expensive apartment in Bordeaux where she held 'salons' - parties for influential and artistic celebrities. He had married her because she had been the daughter of the Minister of Defence at that time. A career move.