Léon gulped his marc. ‘I suppose there could be no harm in giving you the telephone number. You could call from here.’ He opened a notebook by the till, adjusted his spectacles and ran his finger down a list of names, then copied a number on to a piece of scrap paper. He handed it to Peter with a jeton. ‘The telephone is by the toilet.’ He pointed to the rear of the bar.
Having stressed the urgency, he could scarcely refuse. He would have to hope the exchange of passwords sounded natural.
Her telephone rang and rang. The man in the brown suit stepped round him to enter the toilet. He hung up, then tried again in case he had dialled wrongly.
‘No luck.’ He pushed the jeton back across the counter. ‘Could you be so kind as to check the number?’
‘Out for a breath of fresh air on a fine day. Or in the café. Madame likes a coffee in the morning. The number’s right. Do you want to leave a note for her?’ He reached under the counter and brought out writing paper and an envelope.
‘I’ve time enough to go out there. I’m not due at Saint-Nazaire until tomorrow and a walk by the sea will do me good. I’ll ring her from the station. If you could give me directions.’
Brown suit came back, picked up his hat and newspaper, stubbed out his cigarette, and with a wave in the direction of the bar, left the café.
Léon waited for him to go, then smiled. ‘Here, have the address. On a Sunday, you get the Pornic train at the Gare d’Orléans. You can walk it easily.’
‘I am most grateful to you, Monsieur Léon.’
‘Oh, I’m not Léon. I’m his brother-in-law. Can I make you a sandwich? You might find it difficult to get one at the station, with all these refugees from Paris.’
****
Special Duties had its compensations. Here he was, on a local train, rolling gently along to the seaside. Here he was, with bread, Bayonne ham and Camembert, and a bottle of Vichy to wash it down – and ease his tongue, furred from the marc. The carriage was not too full. For refugees, Pornic was the wrong side of the Loire. A little group of grandparents, mothers and children kept him company. The children pointed at him and whispered to their mothers.
On the railway map he could see Pornic sticking out into the Atlantic at the Pointe Sainte-Gildas, just below Saint-Nazaire. He counted off the stations: Saint-Hilaire-de-Chaléons, Bourgneuf-en-Ret. In summer, shorts-and-sandals, bucket-and-spade, rooms-with-a-sea-view; in winter, wild Atlantic storms, closed pensions.
La Bernerie. They were rolling through an area of salt marshes. Next, Pornic. On time. Mme. Lagrange waiting in the café opposite the station.
When he’d rung from the buffet at the Gare d’Orléans, she hadn’t sounded the least surprised, had apologised for being out if he had called earlier. The exchange of passwords – ‘How was the weather for your stay in Antibes? Very hot?’ – ‘Very hot for the time of year. Over 25 degrees’ – had gone smoothly. She would be waiting for him.
Waiting for the man sent to kill her, if need be. He tried to push away the thought. He was not a professional assassin renting out his gun, not a revolutionary stalking a despot, not a gangster hitting the opposition. He was a British soldier, in uniform. And under orders. He would do his utmost to persuade her to come with him, and perhaps that would be that. Should he warn her? But if she were adamant? Refused absolutely?
The children were leaning out of the train windows, waving their sun hats, pointing to glimpses of the ocean between gorse-covered headlands, to sandy beaches and pebbled inlets, shouting to their mother to see.
In some field or deserted cove, lift his Browning and shoot. In cold blood. Where she stood, facing him, looking at him without mercy. He felt eyes on him and glanced across the aisle. The children’s mother was studying him, concerned. She gave him a smile laden with sympathy and exchanged a glance with the grandmother.
Orders were a fact. That was all very well, but could he pull the trigger? Self-defence was one thing. The fact of murder was a fact. How would he know persuasion was over? That one more word wouldn’t do the trick?
Why not simply go to Saint-Nazaire? ‘Nowhere to be found, colonel. French collapsing, Germans at the gate.’ On the way out of Nantes, he’d glimpsed the elderly officer who’d wished him good luck on the tram: he was standing on the steps of a modest hotel holding a small valise and had exchanged his uniform jacket for a civilian coat. How could Ponsonby possibly know otherwise? Sodden with Emu. Jerry about to swarm in.
He drank the last of his Vichy, shouldered his pack, and stepped out of the train, pausing to allow the mothers, grandparents and whooping children to leave the station before he walked into the brightness of the little square outside. Geometric flowerbeds edged with box and aflame with red geraniums; a war memorial, its grimacing poilu identical to that in Les Landes Lauriers. Across the square, café umbrellas beckoned. She was blonde, she’d told him. She’d be wearing a blue and white straw hat; her handbag would be blue and white. On the table, Le Figaro.
For a moment he hovered in the café entrance, allowing his eyes to adjust to the shade. A blonde woman in a blue and white straw hat had found a table for two in the far corner, opposite the bar that ran at right angles to the entrance. A blue and white handbag stood on the floor by her chair and a newspaper lay half open on the table by her cup. Le Figaro. She was smoking pensively and writing in a little notebook.
He was back in the Victoria station buffet amid the bustle of khaki and blue, kitbags, respirators and helmets cluttering spaces between tables, smoke from cheap cigarettes hanging in the air as, holding a cup of tea, he looked for the woman Dinah had sent him to meet, a woman named Madame Gerstina.
‘Madame Lagrange, how very nice to see you again.’
She looked up. ‘Peter. What a welcome surprise.’ She held out her hand. ‘But war brings surprises.’
He bent his head over her hand, taking a deep breath. ‘Might I join you?’ On the telephone he had introduced himself as Sergeant Hill.
‘Please. How is your dear mother in these difficult times?’ The waiter was at their side. ‘What will you drink?’
He asked for a beer. ‘My mother is very well. You have been on her mind. She was saying just before I came out how happy it would make her if you would join us in England.’
‘But all is not lost here.’ She pointed to an article in the paper discussing the possibility of Roosevelt coming into the war and, in effect, saving Reynaud and his government.
‘I don’t believe it. He would never get the approval of Congress. I hear that Pétain is preparing to take over.’
‘Let’s not talk of the war. It’s far too lovely a day. Could you stay for dinner? I can find you a room.’
‘Tomorrow I must be in Saint-Nazaire.’
‘That’s settled then. Finish your drink, and we’ll go for a walk up on to the headland. But first I’ll fix you up with a room and you can leave your haversack.’ She gave it a thoughtful look.
****
They walked away from the centre towards the small harbour. She was only a little shorter than he and slender, displaying the slightest of curves. Her finely stitched linen sailor suit fitted beautifully, the skirt swinging gracefully with her lissom stride. Her shoes, with low heels and a single strap, were of supple white leather, smart and comfortable for walking. That morning at Victoria, intent on following Dinah’s instructions to the letter, he hadn’t taken in her striking looks: her flawless skin, eyes large and slightly slanting, nose straight and long, full lips mobile as she talked. She had a lively, spirited air, though with a quality of watchfulness about her, reminiscent of Walter Thomas.
A corner room in the Hôtel du Môle was where, apparently, her guests always stayed. She waited downstairs, chatting to the proprietress, while he dropped off his pack. The Browning and its ammunition, wrapped in oilcloth, went under the mattress.
Then she led him by a winding path up on to the headland. He restrained himself until they were near the top, no one else in sight. ‘Madame Lagrang
e?’ She looked straight ahead. ‘Or should I say Madame Gerstina? Which would you prefer?’
‘Oh, there have been so many names.’ A smile lit up her eyes. ‘In Pornic and Nantes I prefer Lagrange, if you don’t mind. Incidentally, I am grateful to you for biting your tongue earlier. I am a rather familiar figure here.’
‘To my colonel, you are Madame Lagrange and I have his orders to escort her to London where she will be safe.’
She remained silent, looking out over the harbour and beyond, over the far expanse of Atlantic swells. The late afternoon breeze was soft. She took off her hat and ran her fingers through her thick hair, then gestured with the hat to a small, whitewashed villa below them, standing on its own at the end of a road winding away from the town.
‘That is my house. There I relax and listen to the sea.’
It was his turn to remain silent.
‘And if I do not wish to return?’
‘I very much hope you will choose to come with me.’
‘And if not, you are ordered to kill me.’
‘My orders are clear. Please come with me tomorrow. Madame Lagrange has served London: now London wants her to return. Her mission is over. Isn’t it that simple?’
‘For Marie Lagrange it is simple. For Elisabeth Gerstina it is not that simple.’
‘Neither would wish to fall into the hands of the Gestapo, I imagine.’
‘Berlin and Moscow are allies. Perhaps your colonel has overlooked that’
He was silenced, trying to catch the implications of what she had said.
‘You mean you are also—’
‘Also? When you look into a mirror, is it the image that is looking at you?’
He thought for a moment, then sat down on the rough, short grass and leaned back on his arms, stretching out his legs and searching the empty sea for answers. Did London know this? Was it the hidden reason behind his errand, his order to return with her or dispose of her? Hidden from the colonel, he was sure. If she understood that London knew, how could she return with him? So he was to be her executioner.
She remained standing, looking down at him with a smile. As if she had been reading his thoughts, she said, ‘I do not leave you much choice, do I?’
‘Then why have you told me, Madame Gerstina?’
‘Why do you think, Peter? And please call me Elisabeth.’
‘Because I went to Victoria that morning.’
‘You are getting warm,’ she said in English.
‘Dinah.’
‘Because there are things you should understand before the game finally closes.’
He squinted up at her. ‘Before the French surrender?’
‘You are getting colder. Time to go.’ She held out her hand to pull him up. It was small and delicately formed, the nails elegant. ‘Our game. Mine, Walter Thomas’s, Dinah’s.’ She paused to let him take in the names. ‘We will talk comfortably. Then you can decide what you will do with me.’
‘Where is she?’
‘How could I possibly tell you that?’
Chapter Four
She left him at the bottom of the headland, pointing out the direct path to his hotel, and turned away to her house. She would call for him and they would enjoy dinner together as two friends, forgetting their earlier conversation. Next morning he would go to her house and they would talk seriously. She would be there, she promised. ‘The decision to leave should have been taken long ago.’ He believed her – while seeing how deftly she had created a relationship, a bond. Her warmth had touched him; her mystery intrigued him.
At the hotel, he lay on his bed and tried again to make sense of all he had just heard, putting it with Nick’s oblique comments, looking back at his time with Dinah, if that was her real name. Did he love a phantom? He went down early and waited in the airless lounge where he discovered a picture of Robert Browning among the local seascapes, framed with an extract from Fifine at the Fair, apparently set in Pornic.
In a turquoise silk dress and short white jacket, a dark-red pillbox hat perched on the side of her blonde crop, vivid dark red lipstick and nails, a hint of mascara on her lashes, Marie Lagrange would have turned heads in London. He was bathed in her perfume, its rich fragrance nagging at his memory. In a tiny fish restaurant on the harbour they were served freshly caught langoustine and sole, a perfectly ripened Livarot and an île flottante light as air. They drank a chilled burgundy and a calvados after the fish.
She told him about life as one of the Duchess of Windsor’s dressers, an emergency appointment when her predecessor walked out “for personal reasons” but was able to recommend someone experienced to take her place. Marie Lagrange had worked in the House of Worth when a young woman and was an expert seamstress and alteration hand, could be relied upon to pick matching or contrasting accessories, select garments for the duchess’s final choice, condemn clothes not finished to the highest standard. As the duchess’s confidence in her grew, Marie Lagrange became a confidante. ‘As she stripped, so she unburdened herself. As a woman, she is remarkable. She knows her body as few women know theirs and what it can do.’ Marie ran errands for the duchess, made confidential deliveries, her knowledge of German an asset in certain contacts. ‘They told you something of this in London?’
‘Only in outline. Was it true?’
‘The duke shared everything with his duchess – everything he learned when he served with the British high command, everything he heard from your generals or ambassador. I believe nothing he told her could have failed to go to Joachim von Ribbentrop. Even the Windsors’ travel plans – known to him before the British government – right down to where the duke and she were sleeping.’
Moscow too, he thought. She smiled and nodded. She could read his mind.
‘Were they lovers?’
‘I could not swear to it, but I have no doubt. She is voracious. Happily for the duke, she must be in command.’
‘What was life like for them, the duke and duchess? In exile with no purpose.’
‘I would not say no purpose. Certainly not at the moment. This war has brought the possibility that the duke could be the saviour of his country. She would be at his side, the most powerful woman in Britain. I would not envy Queen Mary. Ribbentrop has picked up that idea and concludes that the duke is receptive. Berlin thinks it has possibilities in a peace settlement that would be kind – as Hitler sees it – to Britain. Moscow is doubtful for a quite different reason: Stalin believes such a return by the duke would lead to unripe revolution. You should tell your government to get the duke and duchess out of the reach of the Abwehr. Oh yes, and tell your colonel that the royal documents are in the Duke of Hesse’s safe.’
He raised his eyebrows.
‘I never found out why they are so important. But apparently they could threaten your monarchy.’
‘Why did you leave?’
‘When they had finally to flee to Biarritz, they had to do without most of their household. The duchess wanted me to go, but there was room for only the essential staff, very few.’
‘You must be sorry it ended.’
‘I am not sorry to see the back of these creatures of privilege it is impossible to respect. But it has created a problem for me.’ She changed the subject abruptly. ‘Now you must tell me of yourself, your work in the law, in publishing, the Pas de Calais.’
‘How much you know about me already.’
‘Shouldn’t a hostess know something of her guest?’ The glint in the brown-yellow eyes tantalised. ‘And she would like to know much more. Let us begin.’
She was a skilled questioner and a good listener. Suddenly he thought how he was enjoying this occasion – the dinner, the company of this woman, this striking, finely dressed, articulate woman, her sharp intelligence, her insight, warm companionship. And tomorrow?
‘You are looking wistful.’
‘I was thinking that I hated the war.’
‘I have known peace only as the absence of war. And if it were not for the war, how coul
d we be having dinner?’
‘And a wonderful evening. Thank you.’
‘I should thank you, after all. You have been a delightful companion.’
She insisted on paying. As they waited for the bill, she asked how he had got on with Léon. ‘I’m surprised he gave you my number here: normally he’s very discreet.’
‘In that case, I was lucky. It wasn’t Léon. It was his brother-in-law. But he did wait until the one other customer left before he gave me the address.’
She counted out the total and added a generous extra tip. ‘You were in luck’s way. In all the time we’ve known each other, Léon never mentioned his brother-in-law.’
Outside she said, ‘If you wouldn’t mind, I think you should stay with me. We can make an early start on settling our business. More sensible, don’t you think?’
She overrode his polite objections. ‘I insist. We’ll tell the night porter that you’ve been recalled. You’ll have to pay for the room, though. I hope that’s all right.’ She slipped her arm through his and turned towards the hotel. ‘We’ll go in the back. They lock the front door at this time of night.’
****
She made some linden tea and left him to drink it at the table in the kitchen at the back of the house while she went upstairs to prepare his room.
The villa was two storeys with a garage to one side and a tiny room in the pitch of the roof. It stood on its own, four or five empty plots away from the beginning of the street, a cul-de-sac of sorts, the road petering out a little further along the headland. The builder had run out of money. In the dim light, as they went up the short path to the front door, he couldn’t fully take in the house, but the exterior had a curiously suburban feel to it, which the interior did nothing to dispel. Too ordinary for so extraordinary a woman.
She saw him looking at the heavy oak Breton dresser. ‘The builder furnished it. I have never owned any furniture.’
Innocence To Die For Page 28