by Colin Forbes
'Supposing we went together,' Newman said calmly, pocketing the key. 'The apartment may still be watched. You come with me. Half my attention is concentrated on protecting you, making sure no harm comes to you. When all my attention should be concentrated on guarding myself. Taking care of you, we could both get killed. My chance of survival is enormously increased if I'm on my own.'
She stood with her arms folded. Her flash of rage had subsided. Newman was counting on her intelligence to grasp the sense of his argument. She smiled suddenly.
'I do understand, Bob. I liked your use of the word "protecting". You realize that is the back door key?'
'I was going to ask you that. Much easier to slip in and out that way.'
'And you'll be coming back here afterwards?'
'Your mother has a key to the Bordeaux apartment?'
'Yes...' The word was out of her mouth before she realized the implications of what he'd said. 'You mean you won't be coming back here? Then how will I know you are safe? I must know that, Bob.'
'I'll phone you when I can. Can't promise when that will be, but I can promise I'll phone.' He hesitated, knowing the next topic could be sensitive. 'Isabelle, an important girl who works for another man may come to see you...'
'Important to you?' Her eyes gleamed.
'I've just told you, she works for someone else - a man who is a close ally of mine. Her name is Paula. She'll identify herself by using the phrase Gruyere cheese.'
'I will look after her,' Isabelle promised, mollified to some extent.
Newman wondered what would happen if the strong-minded Paula did meet the equally strong-willed Isabelle. Maybe it hadn't been too good an idea giving Paula the French girl's address and phone number back in London. Too late now. He stood up.
'Would you by any chance have a few empty bottles? Wine, whatever?'
'It just happens that I was about to throw out a whole collection of empty mineral water bottles. I drink a lot of mineral water.' She looped her arm through his. 'I'm a thirsty soul - and not only for you. They're in the kitchen.'
They walked through a swing door and Newman noted everything was spotless, well organized, in the kitchen, which had a pleasant light blue colour scheme for the cupboards and working surfaces. Isabelle opened a cupboard, dragged out a strong plastic bag.
'There are twenty inside here - empty but with the caps on. I know, I counted as I dumped them. I do things like that. What are you looking at?'
On a shelf were stacked a series of aluminium funnels. Newman picked up a funnel, dived into the bag as she held it open for him, took out a bottle, removed the cap, inserted the end of the funnel. It fitted inside the neck of the bottle perfectly.
'Could I have this too? Unless it's your favourite?' he asked.
'Funny man.' She smiled. 'Drop it inside the bag. You are most welcome...'
He hugged her before he left, had trouble disentangling himself from her octopus-like embrace, walked through the deserted streets to where he'd parked the Renault, hid the plastic sack under a travelling rug in the back. He was driving slowly through Arcachon when he thought he recognized a lone French officer in uniform. The beams played over him for only seconds, then the solitary man merged with the shadows. Despite the uniform, the képi pulled well down over the forehead, Newman could have sworn he'd just seen Lieutenant Berthier.
Something about the way he held himself, moved. Newman recalled his encounter in the lobby of the Brudenell -when the man posing as James Sanders, salesman of marine spare parts, had stubbed his toe and muttered Merde! It was an added worry as he drove out of Arcachon along the N650 to Bordeaux.
The first thing Newman noticed on entering the centre of the city was that there were far more troops in uniform walking in groups. Even at this late hour. He had decided to drive to the Bar Miami where Henri Bayle had been kidnapped by the phoney DST men before being murdered.
He knew the address from something Isabelle had told him on his previous visit. Doubtful whether the bar would still be open at this time of night, he parked close to it, walked the rest of the way.
Newman was confident that in his French clothes, his beret worn at a jaunty angle, he would pass unnoticed among the few couples hurrying to get out of the cold. The Bar Miami was still open.
He walked inside slowly, staring round to check whether there were any French officers among the patrons. They appeared to be mostly civilians - the hardened drinkers still clustered at a few tables. The head barman, described by Isabelle, was polishing the counter.
'Pernod.' Newman ordered.
'We'll be closing soon,' the heavy-set barman said as he took the money.
'Isabelle Thomas.' Newman whispered. 'Can't find her at her apartment. We're like that.' He showed two fingers entwined, winked. 'Any idea where she could have gone?'
The barman was about to shrug: Newman sensed the beginning of the negative gesture. Then the barman saw the two hundred-franc notes peering out from between Newman's fingers. His hand polishing the bar moved more slowly, he took a swift look round, leaned forward.
'I can't give you an exact address.'
'A location would help. Somewhere to start.'
'The other...' The barman stopped in mid-sentence and mentally Newman completed what he'd been on the verge of saying. The other man said almost the same thing ... He couldn't take his eyes off the banknotes just out of his reach.
'Arcachon.' he whispered. 'That's the best I can do.'
'I need to know how you know that.' Newman persisted.
'The girl was in here some time ago - with her boyfriend. The one who got mugged down at Gare St Jean. I heard him tell her he'd visit her when she was in Arcachon. That's it.'
'Somewhere to start.' Newman repeated.
With a sleight of hand he passed over the banknotes. The barman began polishing furiously as though regretting his indiscretion. Newman drank his Pernod, left the bar, hurried to his car.
He sat behind the wheel with the engine running for a few minutes. The news was the worst possible. If the barman would betray Isabelle to him, a stranger, for a handful of banknotes, then he'd clearly done the same before. It looked very much as though Isabelle was being traced by de Forge's men. And he couldn't get out of his mind the instinct that it was Berthier he'd seen in his headlights. He'd have to warn her at the earliest possible moment.
But the next job was to try and recover Bayle's - Francis Carey's - notebook. He drove away as men began to drift out of the Bar Miami. From now on he had to be careful.
Chapter Thirty-One
Newman drove slowly as he came close to the apartment building. He planned to park the Renault in a side street about a hundred yards beyond the alley where he'd parked during his visit with Isabelle. Far enough away not to arouse the suspicion of any watchers; close enough to run for it if he had to.
The street was fairly deserted. It was dark except for the glow from an illuminated shop window opposite the entrance to the apartment block and the murky glimmer of the street lights.
No one lingered outside the entrance but a group of men in heavy overcoats were crouched on the pavement outside the illuminated shop. They were playing some game with dice. In this bitter cold? As he cruised past them he glanced at the motley gathering. Inwardly he stiffened but he maintained the same speed.
A hundred yards or so beyond them he turned left into a narrow cobbled side street, parked with two wheels on the sidewalk. Grim-faced, he sat behind the wheel, his engine still running.
One of the group of dice-players had looked up as he'd passed them. Clad in his old heavy overcoat, collar turned up, the man also wore a fur hat. For a brief second Newman had had a clear view of the face beneath the hat. A face he'd seen before in a photograph.
An evil, grinning face. Like a gnome. A dangerous gnome. Sergeant Rey of the Third Corps. De Forge's booby-trap genius. A man rumoured to carry far more clout than his rank of sergeant would suggest.
So why was he sitting crouched on
the pavement opposite the apartment block in the freezing cold night? And grinning? As though in anticipation of some professional delight.
Newman adopted a slouching walk as he left the side street and moved towards the alley with the back entrance. A few couples also slouched along the street, huddled together, even pausing for an embrace.
Newman was recalling something Isabelle had told him. The staircase they had come down from her mother's first-floor apartment - the staircase down which the two fake DST men who tried to attack Isabelle had ended up dead -led only to her mother's apartment, which was peculiar. Round the back another rear staircase led to the other apartments.
So anyone investigating that staircase by picking the lock would realize the same fact. Someone like Sergeant Rey. Expert at rigging up boobytraps.
Out of the corner of his eye he was watching the group of dice-players who seemed absorbed in their game. As he drew level with the alley Newman was collided into by a couple absorbed in their own company.
'Pardon!' said the youth automatically.
When they had moved on Newman was inside the wide alley. Parked at the end of the alley before it turned the L-shaped corner to the rear of the apartment was a battered old van. By the glow from a low-powered wall light Newman read the legend Ramoneur. Chimney sweep.
He walked alongside the wall of the next building beyond the apartment block, his rubber-soled shoes making no sound on the cobbles. He was watching the closed door which led to the staircase, the door to which he had the key in his pocket. It was pure fancy - maybe nerves - he told himself, but the closed door had a sinister look.
He was also watching the van as he came closer, wondering if the chimney sweep was behind the wheel, smoking a cigarette before he went home to his nagging wife. He came up to the front, peered inside. Empty. Parked for the night. Probably the sweep had the nicest wife in all Bordeaux. He looked back at the closed door.
The idea came to him suddenly. Brought on by his certainty that it was Sergeant Rey he had seen with the dice-players. He took a bunch of keys from his pocket, selected the pick-lock given to him by a small-time villain in the East End of London. It all depended on whether the sweep was using old-fashioned equipment still favoured by some housewives - especially out in the countryside, the type of brush with a long handle composed of bamboo lengths inserted into each other - as opposed to a vacuum sweep.
It took him less than a minute to fiddle open the rear door. Shielding the beam with his hand, he examined the interior with his pencil flash. Thank God! The old-fashioned type.
Newman worked quickly, assembling the long handle. When he had the handle ready he attached the brush. Leaving the van, he looked round the alley, towards the main street at the end, listened. Nothing. No sign of life anywhere.
Holding the long, supple handle, he approached the rear door to the apartment block at an angle. Extending the brush in front of himself, he crouched low, moved the brush over the door. He covered the upper half, ran it slowly round the framework, then he pressed the brush as hard as he could against the area of the lock and the door handle.
The explosion was a muffled boom. The whole door flew out, shattered into several pieces. The brush and handle were ripped out of his hands. Dust drifted from the inside of the apartment block. Had he attempted to open the door he would have been blown to pieces.
Newman ran towards the devastated entrance, ran inside. Holding his breath against the cloud of dust, he raced upstairs, pencil flash in one hand, key to the apartment door in the other.
If he moved swiftly he had no worry about the other inhabitants reacting quickly. They'd be in a state of shock, would stir themselves slowly. He opened the drawer in the bedroom, searched among Isabelle's underclothes trying not to leave a mess. The notebook was wrapped inside a slip. Francis Carey's note book. Small, sum, and bound in blue leather. He slipped it into his pocket, ran out of the apartment, closing the door before he hurtled down the staircase. He glanced over the banister which remained intact - opposite Isabelle's apartment a large chunk had been torn away. Looking down into the well he saw a dim light on the concrete basement floor. No wonder the two DST men had ended up dead - plunging down that drop.
He peered out into the alley before leaving the building. Deserted. But sooner or later the police would arrive. He walked swiftly towards the entrance, keeping close to the wall. He had just reached the corner when a man in a heavy overcoat walked round it. Sergeant Key.
Newman reacted instantly, reinforced by his SAS training. Rey also reacted swiftly, shoving his right hand inside his coat. Newman's stiffened edge of his right hand struck Rey a vicious blow on the side of the neck. Rey slumped to the cobbles, began moaning and wriggling. Newman had hoped to kill the bastard. No time to hang about.
He ran towards his parked car after glancing over his shoulder. The dice-playing group was still watching the front entrance. He was halfway to the side street before they saw him, began clambering to their feet.
Newman's feet hardly touched the ground as he rushed to the Renault, dived inside, started the engine, drove off in the opposite direction from the main street behind him. At the bottom he turned into another side street. A second before he turned he glanced in his rear-view mirror. No sign of the dice-players. Slow on the uptake. And they hadn't seen his make of car.
He drove out of Bordeaux just inside the speed limit, headed along the lonely road back to Arcachon.
Moshe Stein opened his bedroom door in the small hotel on the third tap from Newman. Fully dressed, he ushered him inside, pointed to the rumpled bed.
'I slept in my clothes. I'm ready to drive through the night to my villa if that suits you. But maybe you need sleep. And your windcheater is covered with dust. Also, I repeat, I'm happy to go there by myself.'
'Don't talk rubbish. Give me time to make one phone call. Get ready for that instant departure ...'
Newman used the bedside phone to call Isabelle. She spoke on the second ring: Newman guessed she'd been sitting by her phone.
'It's Bob.' he said. 'Now listen, I haven't much time. The sneak of a chief barman at the Bar Miami heard Henri mention Arcachon when you were talking one night. Just one bribe and he passed on to me what I'm sure he's also passed on earlier to others less friendly...'
'I will be very careful, Bob. Wonderful to hear from you. Where are you speaking from?'
'A long way off.' he lied. 'Now listen! I think when I was driving out of Arcachon I saw a certain Lieutenant Berthier. Got the name? Good. He's one of General de Forge's inner circle of confidants. Description ... Got it? He's in uniform but he might change into civvy clothes. Which is why I emphasized his physical appearance. Stay indoors as much as you can...'
'I have to go out shopping some time.'
'Go out early - as soon as the shops open. Avoid crowds. Wear a scarf round your head. Stay indoors as much as you can. I may phone you again in the not very distant future.'
'When? When, Bob?'
'As soon as I can. Must go.'
He put down the phone before she could protest. He had been careful not to mention her name. He trusted Moshe implicitly - but how much torture can any man resist? After what had happened in the alley in Bordeaux he was beginning to think de Forge had become a monster. It could have been Isabelle - even her mother - who had tried to open that rear door. Their bodies would have been shattered into a bloody pulp.
'I'm ready when you are.' Moshe's voice said behind him. 'That is, if you still insist on coming. They know they missed one man during the massacre at Tarbes. A list of the members of the reading group and their addresses was left behind in the visitors' book everyone signed. I'm known to be an outspoken opponent of de Forge. I - we - will be targets.'
'I'm ready now.' Newman replied.
Half an hour later they were driving well south of Arcachon through the night towards the Landes.
*
Paula disembarked from the Air Inter flight at Bordeaux well after dark. Beh
ind her, but apparently on his own, Harry Butler followed, dressed in casual clothes and wearing a leather jacket. He carried his suitcase in his left hand and he glanced all round the concourse.
Only a few passengers had come off the flight but there were quite a few uniformed French soldiers strolling round, carrying automatic weapons. Behind Harry Butler, also appearing to be on his own, walked Pete Nield, clad in a smart business suit and looking like a salesman.
It was Butler who spotted the girl in the uniform of a stewardess filming the new arrivals. He hurried on past Paula, walked into the raw cold of the night and found the waiting hired car he'd phoned for before leaving Paris. The courier girl was holding a card. Pierre Blanc. A nice common name and the Engine Room back at Park Crescent had provided all the necessary papers in that name.
Butler shoved his bag in the back, leaving a seat vacant, paid the girl in cash. Paula, carrying her small case, was walking away from the airport. Butler got behind the wheel, took his time settling himself, drove away and caught up with her. He stopped briefly, she jumped into the back, he drove off towards Bordeaux.
Behind them Pete Nield, who spoke fluent French, had joined the taxi queue. Paula stacked her case alongside Butler's, stretched - stiff from the flight - then relaxed, gazing out at the lights of the night.
'Well, Harry, we managed that well.'
'No, we didn't. A fat little man smoking a cheroot is on our tail in a Fiat. He saw me pick you up.'