The Betrayal

by Kate Furnivall

  ‘He passed French military information on to you,’ she risked. ‘Just as Roland Roussel is doing now with the Arsenal aircraft.’ She paused. ‘That is treason. You and Roland could be executed.’

  Müller stood, a slow push to his feet, his hands flat on the table, leaning forward. A large threatening presence in the room.

  ‘I warn you, you murdering little putain, that if you don’t get out of here right now and keep that drunken mouth of yours shut, you will regret it for the rest of your life. Which I promise you, will be short.’

  Romy stood to face him. ‘I have a black notebook from my sister’s sewing basket that names names, gives secret codes, and lists the files her husband has passed over to you and your dirty-fingered department.’

  She could feel his gust of breath, foul in her face.

  ‘I will do a deal,’ she stated.

  ‘What is it you want?’

  ‘My sister.’

  She saw the tell – his shoulders relaxed, his neck rose in confidence. She’d overplayed her hand. He walked round to her side of the table.

  ‘So. Florence has gone missing, has she?’

  ‘You know she has.’

  ‘No, I didn’t know. That does concern me. But it will obviously be your Communist friends who are holding her, not mine.’ He inserted a kind of grimace that made her skin crawl. ‘You’d better ask them. Get her back fast.’

  ‘That is only half the deal.’

  ‘Don’t push your luck, Mademoiselle Duchamps. What else?’

  ‘I want a guarantee of safety for Léo Martel.’

  His eyes hardened. ‘Don’t even bother asking. He is a marked man, I promise you. I have my men searching for him now. I believe he is guilty of burning my files last night.’

  Romy was a poker player. So she didn’t freeze, she didn’t utter a sound or let her eyes widen with shock. But inside, something snapped. A part of her broke.

  ‘Why Martel?’ she asked. ‘What makes you think he started the fire?’

  ‘A doctor attended him. He was shot and needed medical assistance. He’s a fool. Better to bleed to death than use a doctor in this city. They are all in someone’s pay.’

  Müller was so close she could have torn his eyes out. ‘If you lay a finger on Martel, I will take all this information to the Intelligence Bureau,’ she warned.

  He pushed his heavy face right up to hers. ‘If you do, you will be the first with a bullet in your head.’ But he saw no fear in her poker eyes. Romy could see his mind hunting for a threat that would hurt. ‘And your sister’s daughter will be the second.’

  She couldn’t swallow. No words came.

  He smiled thinly. ‘Now go.’

  ‘Cupid would not do that to his own child.’

  She’d caught him off guard.

  ‘Cupid?’

  She nodded. ‘Roland. Your assassin.’

  He laughed in her face. ‘You think Cupid is Roland? You are more of a fool than I took you for.’

  A double bluff. Surely a double bluff.

  Abruptly she became aware of danger in the room. Neither of them had moved, yet she felt as if there were a gun to her head already. It was in his eyes. In the hate. She moved quickly to the door, yet at the last moment she turned for one final play of the cards.

  ‘You were with Horst, weren’t you? That day in the study. The day my father died.’

  This time she saw it quite clearly, the alarm on his face, and heard his sharp intake of breath.

  ‘I was told you remember nothing.’

  ‘You were told wrong,’ she said. ‘I remember you there. So tell me what happened.’

  ‘I would rather cut your tongue out,’ he spat at her.

  Romy pulled open the door and walked away.

  The basement apartment smelled of antiseptic. There was blood on the sheet. It felt dank and gloomy and abandoned. There was no trace of Martel himself, as if he’d never lain in the narrow bed with her or dripped blood on her skirt while she held him tight.

  ‘Léo,’ Romy murmured in the silence. ‘Where are you?’

  He’d known that Müller would come after him. Of course he did. But still he’d burned the files. How many lives had he saved by that simple courageous act? Even now when she held her hands to her face she could smell the smoke and feel his grip on her wrist. There was no going back. Was Léo already in hiding? He had stood outside the Avenue Kléber apartment this morning, his arm strapped up in a sling, but by the time she left the apartment he had gone. Had he come to say goodbye?

  She sat on the bed, stretched out a hand and let her fingertips linger on the smears of dried blood on the sheet. She was touching a part of him. It was all she had.

  Now Müller had threatened the life of Chloé if Romy went to the Intelligence Bureau. The bastard had known all along her weak point. Who had betrayed her to him?

  Roland?

  She rose quickly to her feet. She had to find Florence. The thought of her sister’s bones lying somewhere under a smattering of black earth chilled the blood in her veins and she thrust it aside. She looked down at her own bare arm. Flesh and bone. The lines of it still whole. It was alive, it could move.

  Surely if her sister’s arm couldn’t move, she would feel it. You cannot cut one twin without wounding the other at some deep level. Her arm would know. Her foot would know. Surely her heart would know, would feel the loss of its echo.

  She hurried up the stairs from the basement. There was one other person who would know.

  Roland.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  Romy kept on the move, always on the move, because if she remained still there was no way she could stop a howl of rage escaping. She prowled the apartment in Avenue Kléber, her feet padding in silence back and forth across the tiled hall, her ears listening for the first sound of a key in the lock.

  She lay in wait for Roland.

  She had no notion as to when he would return home – it could be early, it could be late – but usually he liked to be back in time to kiss his daughter goodnight. Tonight he wasn’t. Tonight Chloé was already tucked up in bed and the nanny had retreated to her own room to write a letter to her fiancé in Avignon.

  Roland deserved to die.

  Anyone who harmed her sister deserved to die. But first Romy had to find out what had happened in her father’s study. All this time Roland must have known the truth but kept it from her. And if he knew, then Florence must know. They must have known that Gustav Müller was present with Horst Baumeister, but they had never mentioned it. All these years they had watched her dance at the end of a rope of misery and guilt, but had not lifted a finger to loosen the noose for her.

  Is that why Roland and Müller were so closely entwined now? Not just because of their political beliefs but because of what happened in the study.

  Her lungs cramped as she tried to drag air into them and found herself suffocating in the scent of roses.

  And Horst? Was that why he was so interested in her? Because of the murder he’d seen her commit eight years earlier.

  None of it made sense.

  A key sounded in the lock. Romy calmed herself the same way she did when something went wrong in a plane, when a fuel line blocked or one of the rods snapped. She spread a white sheet in her mind, removing from view everything except what she must do to remedy the situation.

  So when the door into the apartment swung open and Roland walked in, Romy was standing in the hall ready to greet him. With his gun in her hand.

  ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ Roland’s face flushed at the sight of the gun pointed at him. ‘Put that thing down.’

  He moved slowly, the way you would with a rabid dog so as not to excite it. He didn’t remove his coat but edged carefully around the hall towards the salon.

  ‘Don’t be a bloody fool, Romaine.’ His hand was on the door handle.

  ‘What have you done with my sister, Roland?’

  ‘For God’s sake, we’ve been through th
is already. I don’t know where she is any more than you do.’

  He opened the door to the salon. She thought about pulling the trigger.

  ‘Roland, why didn’t you ever tell me that Müller and Horst were the two Germans in my father’s study the day he died?’

  ‘What difference would it make? Absolutely none. So forget about it.’

  ‘It might have made a difference to me.’

  He turned away. ‘Go to hell, Romaine.’ He walked into the salon, removed something from the bureau drawer, though Romy could not see what it was, before he slipped it into his jacket pocket, and came back into the hall. Romy had not moved.

  ‘Roland, tell me exactly what happened that day.’

  He uttered a scornful laugh. ‘I suggest you put that gun back where you found it before I return.’

  He opened the front door of the apartment and left. What was she supposed to do? Shoot him in the back?

  Romy gave her brother-in-law a head start and then followed him into the street. It was dark outside, the street lamps creating halos between the trees, but still early enough for the flow of traffic and pedestrians to form a barrier between her and the hurrying figure. Roland was heading for the corner, where she knew he often parked his car. She would lose him. Unless she could find a taxi. There was a taxi rank up near the Étoile and she lengthened her stride to make a run for it, but just as she was checking Roland’s position, she became aware of a black Peugeot gliding to a halt at the kerb beside her.

  She frowned and edged away, but the driver’s window rolled down and a voice she recognised called out, ‘Get in.’ It was Noam.

  The rear door swung open and her heart lifted at the sight of Martel inside. She leaped into the car and grinned at him. ‘Are you following me?’

  ‘No, I offer lifts to every pretty girl in Paris.’

  ‘I am relieved to see you. I’ve missed you.’

  ‘What are you up to now?’

  ‘Trailing Roland. There he is, just getting in his car. I believe he is having an affair. But I think he knows much more about what has happened to my sister than he’s saying.’

  As Roland swept into the main stream of traffic, Romy leaned towards the driver. ‘Allons-y, Noam. Let’s see where he goes.’

  Noam slipped into the lane behind his prey, but Romy turned back to Martel. ‘How are you?’ Her hand gently stroked his arm in the sling. It felt like a bear’s limb in a trap, crippled and awkward. She could only guess at the frustration and anger he was feeling, but he gave no hint of it. He was as pleased to see her as she was to see him, she could tell. So she nestled against him and for the fifteen minutes that it took to drive to Place Vendôme, they sat together in happy silence with no mention of bullets or files or kidnap.

  It was the Ritz Hotel.

  She should have guessed that this was where Roland would hide a mistress. But the thought of it distressed Romy. She wanted to slip in behind her brother-in-law and follow him to whatever room he was heading for, but Martel stopped her.

  ‘No, Romy. He will spot you immediately. What are you going to do? Travel up in the lift with him?’

  Romy frowned. He was of course right.

  ‘He might recognise me, but not Noam. Let Noam find the room number for you.’

  Noam swivelled in the driver’s seat and nodded at Romy. ‘My pleasure,’ he said and the tone of it sent a chill down her.

  She waited impatiently in the car while Noam set off into the hotel, but he was not gone long. Before she could climb out of the car, Martel eased himself out ahead of her and held the car door for her.

  ‘We go together,’ he said.

  ‘No, there’s no need to—’

  ‘There’s every need, Romy.’

  This time she didn’t argue. They entered the vast foyer with its spectacular decor, its lavish marble floors, sweeping staircase and colossal marble columns. But Romy saw none of it. All she saw was her brother-in-law storming down the wide stairs with a face like thunder. He glanced neither to the right nor left, without seeing Romy and Martel beside the lift.

  Romy felt uneasy. What was it? Why was he rushing back out? A row with his mistress? Martel pushed the button for the third floor and together they walked down the softly lit corridor to Room 341. Romy did not hesitate. She knocked briskly on the door.

  The door swung open. A woman stood there. She was naked. ‘Darling, have you come to say sorry that—’ Her words froze.

  It was Florence.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  FLORENCE

  This was not meant to happen.

  We are the mirror image of each other. Our mouths hang open. Our eyes blur with shock. I almost close the door in my sister’s face but she is too quick for me. She leaves her man outside, pushes it open and walks in. Romaine has found me.

  I snatch my silk kimono from the bed and wrap it around myself. She is wearing my dress, one of my favourites, and looks so good in it that it occurs to me for the first time to wonder whether Roland desires her when he sees her in it. More than he desires me. She stands in front of me and I cannot tell whether it is anger or confusion that robs her of speech.

  ‘I’m sorry, Romaine,’ I say. ‘You left me no choice.’

  She takes hold of my shoulders and starts to shake me, so hard my teeth rattle.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ She shouts it in my face. ‘Why are you . . .?’

  She doesn’t finish. Instead she throws her arms around me and pulls me to her, squeezing me so hard that I can’t breathe. She buries her face in my hair and I feel her body start to shake. My sister is crying.

  ‘I thought you were dead,’ she sobs.

  Her pain cripples me, it is so fierce. I stroke her hair.

  ‘Dead? Of course I’m not dead. You weren’t supposed to think . . .’

  She pulls her head back from me, though her arms still grip me tight. She stares into my face, her own tear-streaked and twisted. ‘I wasn’t supposed to think what?’

  ‘That I’m dead.’

  ‘So what was I supposed to think?’

  ‘That I’d been kidnapped.’

  ‘By whom?’

  ‘Enemies of Roland.’

  ‘You mean left-wing activists who will not stand by and watch France being handed over to Nazi Germany?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  Nothing like that. But now is not the time to argue with her.

  Her eyes widen into huge moons. ‘You mean you came and hid yourself away here of your own free will? To frighten me?’

  ‘Yes.’

  I do not expect the slap. Not from my sister. It is hard enough to rock my head back.

  ‘Sit down, please, Romaine.’

  To my surprise she sits in the armchair, her face like stone. I walk over to an ice bucket and pour a glass of Dom Pérignon for myself, a whisky for her – a Glenlivet, Roland’s favourite. I hand it to her but she takes no more than a sip and sets it down on a side table. She has changed. I want to gather her in my arms like I do with Chloé when she is upset but instead I sit on a chair near her with my champagne and reach for a smile within myself, but I cannot find one.

  ‘Why the hell did you do such a thing to me?’ my sister demands bluntly.

  I cannot blame her. ‘To protect you, Romaine. And to protect Roland. You were suspecting too much and proving to be too much of a nuisance. People were getting killed. I didn’t want you to be one of them. I did everything I could to keep you safe, even though you were flying planes to Spain.’

  Romaine looks at me aghast. ‘You know so much?’

  ‘Of course. I am married to Roland. With my disappearance you would have to stay in the apartment with Chloé and Roland. It would separate you from your comrades and my husband could keep an eye on you for me. Roland is as besotted by me now as he was that day in the garden eight years ago, and even though he has grown powerful these days he still does what I ask.’

  ‘He was hardly ever there.’

  ‘
Yes, I admit that part didn’t work out quite right. He kept coming to me here. I couldn’t make him stay away.’ I do manage a smile at that. ‘But I had to do it, Romaine. I had to make you understand the importance of keeping your Communist friends away from Roland. They were closing in on him.’

  ‘They are not Communists.’

  I ignore it. ‘I had to get you to believe that I would be harmed if they came for my husband. I needed you to stop trusting them. For your own good, as well as Roland’s.’

  ‘So you lay around in your silk at the Ritz, drinking champagne and waiting to be bedded by your husband, while I went out of my mind with worry.’

  I feel sick for her.

  ‘I’m sorry, Romaine. I had to.’ I sip a mouthful of bubbles. ‘Müller was coming after you. I had to force him to stay away from you. For God’s sake, Romaine, it wasn’t just a coincidence that so many of your comrades were killed and you weren’t.’

  At that, I see a tremor go through her. She is frightened of him. ‘I removed your file from his office,’ I tell her, ‘but he was like a dog with a bone, suspicious of you and—’

  ‘You removed my file?’

  ‘Yes. When Müller was distracted on the telephone.’

  ‘And your own file?’

  ‘Yes.’ I look at her carefully. ‘How do you know that? Unless . . .’ My mouth goes dry. ‘You,’ I whisper. ‘You were there.’

  Romaine nods. I picture the fire that turned Müller’s diligently hoarded information to ash. He would be insane with fury, lashing out at . . .

  ‘Florence.’

  There is something in her tone, something new, something that frightens me.

  ‘What is it, Romaine?’

  ‘Horst Baumeister and Gustav Müller were in Papa’s study the day I killed him.’

  The words I killed him come out of her mouth covered in blood, dripping strings of it on the carpet, and we blink in unison to banish the image. I want to run to her. To tell her to stop now before it is too late. But she is relentless.

  She stands, comes over to me and kneels in front of me, her head no higher than Chloé’s. Her hands grasp my knees, pinning us together, and I feel the heat of her palms through the silk of my kimono. I don’t want to hear what she has to say.