The Betrayal

by Kate Furnivall

  I persuaded my sister Florence Valérie Duchamps, against her will, to lie for me, and her friend Roland Roussel. They are both innocent of any involvement in the murder of my father. I put the blame on our gardener, Karim Abed. I lied to the police and I lied in court. Karim was convicted and executed, for which I feel abject shame and sorrow. I apologise to his family and to my mother for the pain I have caused them.

  This confession is because I want the truth to be known. I want Karim Abed’s wife and son, Aya and Samir Abed, no longer to bear the stigma of being the wife and son of a murderer. He was innocent.

  To my mother, Adelle Duchamps, and to Roland Roussel, I apologise from the bottom of my heart. I regret everything I did that day.

  This confession is written and signed of my own free will and in sound mind.

  Romaine Duchamps

  I read the letter through five times. Then five times more. Then I tear it and its envelope into a thousand pieces and tip them into the bottom of my handbag, hidden under my scarf and keys. I leave the room. With every thump of my heart comes the same question.

  Why didn’t she apologise to me?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  ‘Where have you travelled from?’

  ‘From Nice.’

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘Paris. I live there.’

  Romy was seated at a metal table. The room in the police station was small and airless, with that heavy smell of men in uniform. The single light bulb that hung from the ceiling was naked and too bright for comfort. It seemed to flicker and pulse in the corner of Romy’s eye.

  Turn it off.

  But she stuck to her answers to the questions that the man seated opposite her kept throwing at her. Inspecteur Chardin. He was not in uniform but wore an exquisite grey linen jacket that looked too costly for a sûreté policeman. His expression was disarmingly gentle, his voice softly-spoken, only his eyes gave him away. Quick and observant.

  ‘What were you doing in Nice?’ he asked.

  ‘I was looking for a job on a yacht. But failed to find one, so I’m going home.’

  ‘How long were you in Nice?’

  ‘Only two days.’

  ‘Were you alone?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Where did you stay?’

  ‘Nowhere. I slept on the beach. I’ve told you this.’

  ‘Were you in Spain?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘In the mountains?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘With a companion?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I believe you are lying. Are you lying, mademoiselle?’

  ‘No.’

  The questions chased each other in circles. The same ones over and over again while the inspecteur waited for her concentration to slip and the truth to come tumbling out of her mouth. He paused to light himself a cigarette but did not offer her one. She badly wanted a glass of water – her mouth felt like the bottom of a dustbin – but she refused to ask for one in case he decided to play games and deny her it.

  ‘Inspecteur Chardin, why am I here? I have a right to know. Why have you dragged me off a train and brought me here?’

  ‘Because we received information that a woman would be travelling on that train who has been involved in dealings with the Republican forces in Spain.’

  ‘It is not illegal to support the Republicans,’ she pointed out.

  ‘True.’ He smiled in his mild-mannered way as if she might have wrong-footed him. ‘But it is illegal in France to supply them with aeroplanes. There is a law against it.’

  She needed that water. Her mouth was bone dry.

  ‘I was in Nice. Not Spain.’ She stood up, her chair scraping on the tiles. ‘I know nothing about Spain. May I leave now?’

  He tipped his chair on to its back legs, easy and confident. ‘I am informed you were travelling with a man.’

  ‘You are mistaken, Inspecteur. I travel alone.’

  He nodded. She had convinced him. He would let her go now and she could start looking for Martel. She was frightened for him. Had they hauled him off the train too? She took a step towards the door but immediately a uniformed officer in the corner moved in front of it.

  ‘Mademoiselle.’ The inspecteur’s soft voice pursued her. It had gained a sorrowful edge to it. ‘You are lying. You know it and I know it. I need to hear more about the plans of those fighters up in the mountains, just across our border. There are people who need to know. It will be better for you to speak the truth to me than to be asked these questions by other interested parties. You understand me?’

  Fear came. A quick sharp stab of it. Like a needle in her throat.

  ‘I wish to leave now. You have no proof, so you cannot hold me here.’

  ‘On the contrary, we have a friend of yours here too. I would like you to take time to think about why you are both here.’

  Léo Martel. Her breathing stopped.

  ‘Take her away.’

  It wasn’t Martel.

  Relief pumped through Romy’s veins when she was conducted into another small interview room – a room, not a cell – and found Josephine Baker in her harem suit sitting alone on the edge of the table, puffing on a hefty cigar and wearing an expression of extreme exasperation. At the sight of Romy she slid off the table and stalked across the room with the grace of a cheetah. A cheetah with its hackles raised.

  ‘Girl! What kind of mess have you got me into? What the hell is going on?’

  Romy went to the singer and for a brief moment hugged her tight, then released the tense angry figure. ‘Got a cigarette?’

  ‘You get nothing from me till you tell me why these flics are all over you.’

  ‘I’m sorry you’ve been dragged into this. They seem to have mistaken me for someone else, I think, someone they are searching for.’

  ‘Is that a fact?’

  Romy nodded firmly. ‘Have they questioned you?’

  ‘You bet they have. A scrawny young officer still wet behind the ears.’

  ‘What did you tell him?’ Romy tried to look as if it didn’t much matter. As if Léo Martel’s life didn’t depend on it.

  Josephine pulled out a pack of Gitanes, offered one and lit it with a gold Dupont lighter. ‘I told them we met on the train, that you were a bad influence on me.’ She chuckled at that. ‘And that we played cards and drank whisky for half the night. That’s it.’

  ‘Did you mention the gendarme on the train?’

  ‘Oh yes, that too.’

  Romy sat down at the table. Her legs were shaky. Josephine took the chair opposite and they looked at each other guardedly. Romy glanced at the door to make sure it was securely closed.

  ‘Did you mention anyone else on the train?’

  The singer dropped the stub of her cigar on the tiled floor and stubbed it out with her heel, then rolled her black eyes in Romy’s direction. ‘Anyone particular in mind?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Good. Because I didn’t mention nobody else.’

  ‘Merci,’ Romy whispered and exhaled a long string of smoke with relief. ‘Have you called a lawyer to get you out of here?’

  ‘You bet your sweet arse I have. And if he’s not in his Voisin Aérosport right now driving like a bat out of hell to this stinking little commissariat, I will murder him with my own hands. Then the inspecteur will have a real case on his doorstep to investigate.’

  A laugh rose in Romy like a shaft of sunlight within the dark chill inside her. She liked this woman, she liked the way Josephine Baker seized life with both hands.

  ‘Romaine, tell me what this mess is about?’ Josephine’s head cocked to one side appealingly. ‘You must know what’s going on.’

  ‘I don’t, honestly I don’t. As far as I understand, they are searching for someone travelling from Spain.’

  ‘Is this someone some kind of agent?’

  Romy shrugged. ‘It’s possible. They are keeping everything secret. They took us off the train between stations so that no one
will know where we are, but it’s all a mistake. You must get out, Josephine. Quickly. Get that lawyer of yours to take you home to Le Vésinet. Don’t get involved.’

  ‘Too late for that, honey.’ Josephine ran a hand over her sleek black hair, short as a lamb’s fleece and oiled so that it gleamed like fresh paintwork. ‘Hell, I need a shower to wash the stink of this place off me.’

  The door opened. A blue uniform stood there.

  ‘Romaine Duchamps, come with me.’

  Romy kissed Josephine Baker’s cheek. Was this the end?

  Sometimes you can be looking in the wrong direction. Sometimes you can be walking down the road looking straight ahead, when a truck comes roaring out of a side street and smacks right into you. That’s what happened when Romy stepped back into the interview room. She’d been looking in the wrong direction.

  ‘Bonjour, Mademoiselle Duchamps. We meet again.’

  ‘Herr Müller!’

  Herr Müller? In a provincial police station? Tell me, Fräulein, do you ever fly to Spain? That’s what he’d asked at Monico’s, and now he was here to interrogate her again.

  He approached her, a smile of greeting painted on his thin lips, hand outstretched. She shook it as if he were a friend, rather than someone she knew was here to hurt her. His firm grip held on to her hand for too long.

  ‘Please sit down.’

  Romy remained standing in the airless room. ‘Herr Müller, why am I being detained here? I have done nothing wrong and yet I am being treated like a criminal. I insist on being released immediately.’

  ‘Not like a criminal, I assure you, mademoiselle. We are just asking you some questions.’ He released her hand and gestured towards a chair. ‘Let us be civilised about this. Please do sit down.’

  Civilised?

  She could be civilised. She took a seat. She needed to find out how much he knew, especially about Martel. Oh Martel, are you being questioned too? Are they being civilised with you?

  Herr Müller sat in the other chair. His pale suit matched the grey of his hair exactly and there was an air of authority that hung on him as visible as cigarette smoke.

  ‘Horst Baumeister pointed out to me,’ he said, ‘that you are well informed about the Condor Legion in Spain.’

  ‘I read the newspapers, that’s all. That is not illegal. Not in France.’

  ‘Mademoiselle Duchamps, there are people in Paris who are trying to hinder our attempts to—’

  ‘You mean Germany’s attempts.’

  ‘Yes, that is correct. They are trying to hinder Germany’s attempts to help Spain free itself from the Communist forces that have taken over its government. It is my belief that you are one of these people. You are involved with a group of radicals who are stealing Germany’s military secrets and passing them on to our enemies in Spain.’

  She laughed. As though the idea were absurd.

  The German didn’t laugh. He leaned across the table and slapped her hard across the cheek, a sudden stinging blow that rocked her head back and tore the breath from her. The shock of it changed everything.

  Normal rules didn’t apply. Not in here. Not anymore. Not with Herr Müller. She understood that now.

  The slap had scared Romy even more than the gun she had glimpsed in a holster under his jacket when he’d leaned forward. Whatever was going on here, he was in charge and he intended her to be aware of it. All pretence of friendship had peeled away from his grey eyes and what lay behind them chilled her to the bone. But he didn’t know her, didn’t realise that she was not a person to lose her courage when a storm blew up.

  ‘You left DeFosse airfield two days ago in a private aircraft,’ he stated.

  ‘No, you are mistaken.’

  They hadn’t logged the flight. He couldn’t know. He was guessing. Surely he was guessing. She jumped to her feet, strode to the door and yanked it open. Outside, blocking her exit, stood a policeman.

  ‘Close the door, mademoiselle,’ Müller said behind her.

  She closed the door.

  ‘Now let’s talk about who travelled with you in the aircraft. What is his name?’

  ‘I travelled by train and I travelled alone.’

  ‘I am not interested in your lies.’

  ‘Herr Müller, this is France, not Germany. You have no jurisdiction here.’

  He uncoiled from his seat and moved towards her fast. She readied herself for another slap but it didn’t come.

  ‘Don’t for one moment think that is true, mademoiselle. If I choose, you will be on a plane tonight heading for Berlin. Keep that in mind. Now sit down, let us talk about your travelling companion, and while we do that, I will have Inspecteur Chardin bring us coffee.’

  Romy sat down, her mind racing down wild paths. He ordered coffee, but it was obvious he was not going to release her. It was also obvious that he did not know who her travelling companion was. That was the only glimmer of light in this dark tunnel, as long as Josephine Baker said nothing, but even with her, Romy had been careful never to mention Martel’s name.

  ‘I will make a deal with you,’ she announced.

  ‘I don’t do deals.’ But he gave her a smile, a cold and lifeless smile. ‘What do you have in mind?’

  ‘The deal is this. You tell me how you knew I was in the south of France and on the Blue Train, and in exchange I will try to find everything I can for you about the people you are looking for in Paris.’

  She thought of the gun in Herr Müller’s holster and the bullet holes in the heads of François and Grégory.

  ‘A double agent?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said.

  ‘Why would you do that, mademoiselle?’

  ‘Because I expect to be paid. And because I don’t want to end up locked in a Berlin basement with someone like you.’

  He didn’t like that. A stream of German invective poured from him, harsh and angry, none of which made sense to her. Yet something snagged in her mind. One sentence. It climbed through the layers of her fear and got itself caught on something sharp and painful.

  ‘Ich möchte mich nicht streiten.’

  She’d heard it before. But where? It swept an overwhelming sense of sadness through her, though she didn’t understand why. But the echo stayed. So strong, it silenced all else, reverberating inside her head. Just those few words. Ich möchte mich nicht streiten. They knocked her feet from under her.

  ‘Mademoiselle Duchamps?’

  Romy blinked. Müller’s inquisitive eyes were staring at her, expecting a reply. She’d missed something.

  ‘I’m sorry, Herr Müller?’

  ‘I said how do I know I can trust you?’

  ‘You don’t. You have to take my word that . . .’

  The door opened and Inspecteur Chardin entered with two cups of coffee. Müller nodded towards the table. It was quite obvious who was in charge here, but Romy couldn’t work it out. How could a German be calling the shots in a French police station? But as she reached for the coffee, a female voice floated into the small room.

  ‘Romaine, ma chérie, time to leave.’

  Josephine Baker glided in with a small thin man with a worried face at her heels, presumably her lawyer, and stood with her hands on her slender hips, surveying the scene. Slowly a wide scarlet-lipped smile spread across her face.

  ‘Well, well, look who we have here.’

  Müller recognised the famous singer at once and leaped to his feet. He performed a courteous Germanic bow of his head. ‘Madame Baker, I am Gustav Müller. What a pleasure to meet you, though unfortunate that it is in such dismal circumstances.’

  Josephine extended her hand with all the grandeur of a queen and he bent over it with a brief click of his heels. ‘I hope you’ve been entertaining my young friend, Romaine.’ Without waiting for a reply, she switched her headlamp-beam smile to Inspecteur Chardin. ‘And Xavier, honey, I didn’t know you worked here. The last time I saw you, you didn’t look quite so smart, did you? That party in Neuilly.’ She rolled her black eyes and chu
ckled with a wicked whoop of amusement.

  He remembered all right. Romy saw the French policeman’s face drain of blood, his lips turn grey. He looked sick.

  Josephine beamed at him. ‘How is Madame Chardin?’

  ‘She is well, thank you.’

  ‘Good. We want her to stay that way, don’t we? We don’t want to worry her with that little incident when you went swimming in the pool with two naked fifteen-year-old girls who proceeded to paint your balls gold.’

  Romy uttered a snort of laughter. She left her chair and slipped her arm through Josephine’s. ‘Shall we go now?’

  ‘No, Madame Baker,’ Müller said sharply. ‘I insist that Mademoiselle Duchamps remains here with me.’

  Josephine let her eyes linger on Romy’s cheek. ‘What have you been doing to my friend, Gustav? I hope you didn’t have an argument.’ She smiled benignly at him. ‘Argue with Xavier Chardin instead about whether Mademoiselle Duchamps stays or goes. In the meantime,’ she blew him a kiss, ‘au revoir.’

  Inspecteur Chardin flapped a panicked hand at her. ‘Get out. Both of you. Get out of here. Allez-vous-en.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  FLORENCE

  I find my sister. She is prowling back and forth, tense as a tigress among the foliage, hidden under the poplar trees at the boundary of the airfield. I come up behind her and she nearly jumps out of her skin. She is so focused on the handful of buildings and hangars huddled at the far end that she is unaware of what is right behind her.

  ‘Florence! What are you doing here?’

  ‘Looking for you.’

  She looks a mess. A dress that resembles a shapeless black shroud and such dark circles under her eyes they twist my heart.

  ‘Have you been in a brawl?’ I indicate the purple bruise on her cheek.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘For God’s sake, Romaine, you have to cut back on the drinking.’

  But she is not listening. She is elsewhere. Barely conscious of me. I follow her line of sight and find it concentrated on one brick building at least two hundred metres from us. People are coming and going in and out of it.

  ‘What’s in there?’ I ask.