He explored the garage: a two-seater Renault, with driving gloves and a jaunty peaked cap on the dashboard; the tank was half full. Back in the house, he took some food and water, his pack, and, as an afterthought, the long mackintosh and the beret from the hall and put them in the car. Then he walked round the house one last time.
He stood by her and turned the sheet down, bending to kiss her cold brow. ‘Rest in peace.’
The secret agent. Whom he’d been ordered to kill. Fortune – good? ill? – had come between him and the decision. Would he possibly have done it? She had spied against his country. Dinah too. Her cousin. Arpège. The magazine with his mother’s latest work. Dinah there? In the villa?
‘Rest in peace.’ The sea echoed in the room. His eyes prickled again. He covered her and hurried from the room, the white peignoir patterned with red before his eyes.
The little Renault started at once. Wearing the long mackintosh and beret, the Mauser in easy reach under a magazine on the passenger seat, he drove off, looking for the road to Nantes.
****
He parked in the street parallel to the Rue des Tourelles and went down the alley to her front door holding her keys. If that woman came out, he could say Madame Lagrange had sent him. His second guess proved correct. Two turns of the key and he was inside, locking the door behind him. Post was under his feet; he automatically picked it up. Ahead lay a narrow linoleum-floored passageway and flight of stairs, dimly illuminated by the red and green fanlight over the street door. Upstairs, a second door, locked. The next key on the ring did it. He relocked it behind him.
She’d had a living room, which also contained a sideboard and dining table, a small kitchen and a bigger bathroom, and a single bedroom – all practical and comfortable enough, but hemmed in and dark even on a June day. Small wonder she had wanted the villa’s light and space. A shelf of files for the business, supplies, orders, sales, wages, bills. Very orderly. A file for her employment with the Windsors, ending with a glowing tribute to her professional skills, loyalty and discretion. The private secretary: “The Duchess has instructed me particularly to say …”
More collections of chess games and a board on a side-table with the pieces ready. More books on tailoring and fashion. Works in Russian, German and, he supposed, Polish, as well as French. Some verse – Verlaine, Heine, Rilke, Blok, Mayakovsky. No Novalis. The Brothers Karamazov and Little Dorrit in the same editions as the villa. A richly illustrated history of architecture, recently published in America. A large wireless. A list of telephone numbers, local again. In the bedroom, nothing but clothes, hats, shoes and toiletries. How smart and how exact she had been. Again, the fragrance of Arpège. In the bathroom too, where there was a big box of dusting powder. The cold, damp terrace house in London came back; with it, briefly, the memory of his despair. Nothing for Elisabeth Gerstina—no papers or passport. Would she have kept such things there? Again nothing, nothing he could see that provided a link to Dinah.
Time was passing. He sat down on the easy chair by the chessboard, her favourite seat he supposed, and looked round. He’d put the post down on the sideboard when he came in: among the official letters, bills, registrations, the bright colours of a postcard stood out. In mid-May it had been sent from Yverdon in Switzerland, showing the city with the hills of the Jura behind. In one of the chess books, a card had marked a page. From Geneva, Calvin’s unforgiving statue. Date-stamped at the beginning of April. Neither card had any message: only the printed “Greetings from” in French and a “baisers Lily” printed in ink.
He was taking one last look at the books when he heard the downstairs front door open and close. Footsteps slowly approached up the staircase, each step carefully put down stair by stair. A pause and something was inserted into the lock of the second door.
In one long stride Peter was behind the living room door. He pushed it half open, held his knife ready, and waited.
The visitor opened the upstairs door and stood in the hallway of the flat, holding his breath for a moment. Then he walked into the living room.
Peter slammed the door shut, the noise momentarily stunning the man, and took him by the throat hard against the wall, knifepoint at his breast.
‘I didn’t mean her any harm. Please don’t kill me.’ It was Léon’s so-called brother-in-law, a bandage round his head, bloody. He was sweating, his blotchy cheeks pale, his tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth. ‘You have no need.’
The will to violence was flooding through Peter, hard to hold back. ‘I have every need.’ He pressed the knife harder. ‘She demands it.’
‘I swear I did not know he was planning to do for her. He said we were getting some information.’ His Parisian accent was even more pronounced. ‘She would have it when you and she had spoken, he said. I had to make sure you got to Pornic, then be his driver.’ His breath told of a cognac or two, to nerve himself for the break-in and perhaps to dull the pain of the bullet. ‘That was all that concerned me, he said.’
‘Who said?’
‘Raymond. He’s the one you want. Who killed her. I didn’t know, I swear. I’m just a refugee. From Paris. I needed the work. He said he would see me right.’
‘And what are you doing, creeping in here?’
‘I know she’s not coming back, poor woman. I thought I could see what to sell, so as to get out of here. I left Paris with nothing.’
One jump ahead of the police, most likely. Taking advantage of the confusion. ‘Cough up if you want to live.’ A coldness had taken over. Hadn’t she said “To use violence is really a sign of failure”?
Pierre Filon, part-time barman, full-time thief. In Paris he’d stolen, to order, some documents for a White Russian. He’d put him in contact with Raymond. ‘Raymond Steiner. Naturally not his real name. You can always tell.’ He’d done some work for him. Raymond had set him up with this job, got them out of Paris, to Nantes. There had never been any violence before. ‘I beg you to believe me. I have always steered clear of violence. The police will tell you. Now see what’s happened. You shot me. Another millimetre, I’d be a goner. My poor head is still ringing.’
‘What happened to Léon?’
‘He’s all right. He just had this telegram his mother was ill and needed him urgently. I came up here because I just want to get away. You have to believe me.’ The cognac was sour on his breath. In the street a man shouted that the Boche were in Laval. ‘Rennes tomorrow, then us,’ a woman called back.
Kill him? One thrust would do it. His muscles tensed. But why? Just small fry, doing his best, or worst, to get by. ‘You are going to get down on your knees and put your hands under them.’ Peter lowered him to the floor, then let go of his throat and put up the knife. He found some of the notes he’d taken from her purse and held them under Filon’s nose. ‘What do you know of Raymond Steiner?’
‘All I know is that he was secretary of some White Russian organisation in Paris. He didn’t exactly encourage inquiries. He needed a job done from time to time. Documents, letters mostly, passports, reports. I’d take them and put them back when he’d seen them. Once or twice he brought someone to the bar I worked in, the Moncin, near the Place Clichy, and I slipped something into their drinks. He paid well.’
Peter tucked the money into Filon’s jacket. ‘Get out. Don’t let me see you on the street.’
‘Thank you. He is not a nice person, that Raymond. I reckon you’re lucky he didn’t do for you too.’
‘I am sorry I did not kill you both. She was a wonderful woman.’
‘You properly smashed up his shoulder, put him in hospital. That was something. But watch out: he has a long memory.’
‘One thing more. Where is Henri Robinson?’
‘Never heard of him.’
‘Come on. The Fashion Fur Company. You know.’
‘Never heard of it or him.’ He was looking away. ‘I swear to you.’
****
Still wearing the long mackintosh and beret, he parked her car in a side st
reet near the Saint-Nazaire docks and walked away, leaving the keys in the ignition. He’d stopped briefly on the road, pulling into a lane for a bite and a drink. On a sudden thought he’d fired the Browning twice into the ground. He couldn’t return to London with it clean. A pity he hadn’t used it on Raymond Steiner. It would have ripped apart the evil bastard.
Closer to the dock gates, he threw the mackintosh and beret into a church doorway. From a café came the sound of Pétain’s statement, played on the wireless from a scratchy recording. He had one thing more to do before reporting in. He went to the telephone and called the police.
Chapter Five
‘You’re back?’ Hugh sounded relieved. ‘Our colonel’s locked in battle in Whitehall. Why don’t you go straight to Section K, hand in your gear and call again from there. We’ll see if his nibs has returned or what. I’ll let K know you’re on the way. Are you in one piece? I prayed for you.’
He decided to make a detour to the flat. It wouldn’t do to linger there but some things couldn’t go with him to the barracks. He would wrap the Mauser in oilcloth and put it in the safe together with Elisabeth’s keys and papers. He dropped off his books too, except the Modern Short Stories – he wanted to ring Nick with events still fresh – or before his reputation sent him off to kill someone else. A letter from Ella, posted in London, was among the mail waiting for him. He took it, vowing not to forget this one.
In her office, Amelia confided that Mr Lavell was with the colonel in Whitehall. ‘Things are a bit up in the air. Quite a struggle behind the scenes as to what sort of special operations Britain needs and who should be in charge of it. A new minister wants to take it over. Very forceful. Just as you joined, too. Still, I’m sure whoever comes out on top, they’ll need you. At least you’ve done something for us. Of course, I shouldn’t be telling you all this.’
Her desk was very tidy. The paper lay open at the near-completed crossword. ‘I’m racing Hugh by phone. Across then down. Odds then evens. We’re both stuck at “aspire to loosen this knot”.’
‘“Intrinsicate”. “With thy sharp teeth this knot intrinsicate/of life at once untie.” Cleopatra’s asp.’
‘You’re brilliant. I can tell Hugh I’ve finished, though it is cheating to accept help.’
‘Do you ask Lavell?’
‘He’s hopeless. Takes all day and then his wife finishes it for him over dinner. She’s a teacher.’
She made him a cup of tea and he handed over the remainder of the French francs and his few receipts.
He must have mixed up one of Elisabeth Gerstina’s banknotes with the remains of Lavell’s float. Amelia instantly picked up its faint fragrance. ‘Not one of ours, sergeant.’ She waved it under her nose. ‘Your friend has expensive taste.’ She gave him a jolly smile and handed back the note. ‘You must have enjoyed an interesting excursion. I’ll give you a receipt for the rest. Mr Lavell is very punctilious. Now, let’s ring your fellow sergeant.’
‘Hugh? “Intrinsicate”. Cleopatra’s asp of course. Here’s your sergeant. He’s obviously had a wild time.’
‘You’ve the rest of the day off, sergeant. Our colonel says to meet him in the Dingo Club at 1830. Mufti. Any papers to be returned can go in an envelope and he’ll take it. 22b Whitfield Street, off Tottenham Court Road. Nearer Euston than Oxford Street. A basement drinking-den, I imagine. I’ll pray even harder for you.’
Amelia took him back to the front door. ‘The Dingo Club? Mufti? Doesn’t sound as if the colonel’s had good news.’
‘Will you be all right?’
‘Oh yes. Family and friends in high places. And Mr Lavell is seen to have done well, putting proper systems in place, imposing order on chaos.’
‘“The waste wide anarchy of chaos”.’
‘“Damp and dark” is right.’ She kissed his cheek. ‘Everyone will be glad you’re back safely.’ She smelled of Palmolive soap.
****
No taxi lurking up by the villas. He cut into the park and walked down towards the West End, trying to capture the ordinariness of it all. A bench under a sunny acacia beckoned and he sat to read Ella’s letter, “Just a note really, in haste”, as an officer invalided home had promised to take it to London.
“Hello dear. No censor! How very naughty.” She’d managed to get a bit closer to the troops and had made drawings of soldiers in assembly areas in the desert, parading and training. For men prepared for Flanders and trench war, the desert took some getting used to. Father had been flying all over the place and as she wrote was somewhere in the Levant. He should be in his element. The desert was tank country—if we had tanks. She hoped to wangle a trip to Jerusalem next.
However, the main news was that Mother had fallen out with the Roumanians and was in some sort of trouble with her papers. As her papers had been okay before, the problem was a mystery. Father had been in touch with Anselm. If he, Peter, was in London and had any free time, perhaps he should have a word, if he hadn’t already.
When she had been to Jerusalem and earned her keep with the forces, she would try to find something back home. She missed the pulse of London and its infinite variety, which you could flit through as a ghost through walls. “Here the wives demand that you’re somebody they can recognise, either ‘a lady artist’ proficient in watercolours of donkeys, dragomen and the pyramids at dusk, life from the hotel verandah; or ‘a strange, estranged traveller’ a Bell, Stark, Lady Hester Stanhope. Well, I’m neither, though closer to the estranged, strange traveller.”
There was a sketch of hats clustered over a tea table.
“Do see Anselm soon. Orders permitting, of course. How’s Dinah? She would fit in well here. How about a twinly missive?”
The letter was dated only five days before – not bad – and explained Madame Duverger’s anxiety. He would ring Veronica. Between father and Anselm, everything was probably sorted out; his mother snapping away again. But the news left him uneasy.
At Portland Place, he went into a telephone box, took the Penguin Modern Short Stories out of his pack ready, and dialled Nick. It rang five or six times before the phone was picked up. A voice said the number and waited. He asked for Mr Nick Harry.
The voice said evenly, ‘He’s not at this number. Who is it calling?’
‘A business friend.’
‘Well, can I help? I’m dealing with Mr Harry’s business contacts. Did he give you anything to identify yourself?’
‘I have to go, I’m afraid. I’ll call back.’
He hoped he’d sounded straightforward. He would keep the Penguin by him. He expected Nick to get in touch.
****
He saw the bottle of Emu before he saw Colonel Ponsonby. As the porter at the entrance had advised – was there something about the way in which the man had said, ‘It’s the colonel you want?’ – he was sitting at a wall table at the back of the bar.
The Dingo Club had no plate outside, only brass numbers screwed into a wooden board on the railings above the area. Worn stone steps, the edges painted white for the blackout, led down to a heavy door, also edged in white, opening into a black-curtained enclosure that gave on to an entrance hall with a woven green and gold carpet. The light from lamps with green and gold shades was warm but subdued. A beefy Australian in a dark suit behind a high desk inquired if he was a member.
In the oak-panelled main room, the Bill Woodfull Room, a curving bar with stools and a brass foot-rail took up much of the space. A smaller, chintz-ridden room was for members with lady guests. The stools were already occupied, bursts of cheery laughter rolling from end to end of the bar.
‘Drop of vino?’ Colonel Ponsonby divided the last of the Emu between Peter’s glass and his and called for another bottle. ‘So you made it back in one piece. Well done, m’boy. What’s your report?’
‘As instructed, colonel, I sought out Madame Lagrange. I invited her to return with me to this country. I have to report, sir, that she declined.’
The colonel stared into his glass. ‘A
nd?’
‘She will not fall into enemy hands.’
‘Or anyone’s?’
‘Or anyone’s, sir. As ordered.’
The colonel appeared to be taking in what Peter had said, rolling his glass gently under his nose, then drinking. He seemed smaller and deflated compared with the man issuing orders in the Lord’s flat. ‘Sent to the devil?’
‘That I couldn’t say, colonel, but Madame Lagrange is no longer of this world, sir.’
The colonel grunted and swilled his wine round again. ‘Give any reason? For not wantin’ to come with you?’
‘No, colonel. She simply refused. Said she couldn’t, but refused to say why.’
‘You gave her every chance?’
‘Every chance. She was adamant.’
‘Adamant? Adamant.’ The colonel lingered on the word. ‘You talked for some time?’
‘I made contact with her by phone, then went to her house in Pornic, on the coast. There we talked in private. She had every chance to come with me.’
‘Talk about her work for us, did she?’
‘She told me that she had been with the duchess and something of what she had done.’ He leaned forward and put his hand up to his face. ‘She said to tell my officer that the royal documents are in the Duke of Hesse’s safe.’
‘The Duke of Hesse?’
‘The Duke of Hesse’s safe, sir.’
‘She talk about anyone or anythin’ else of interest? Any contacts? Her ring?’
‘No mention of a ring, sir. I think you would have been interested to hear her account of the duchess’s links to—’
‘No names and not a word to anyone, you understand, sergeant?’
‘Understood, sir. She did say my officer should tell our government to get the duke and duchess out of the reach of the Abwehr.’
‘The devil she did. The Abwehr? Really?’
‘Sir.’
‘Hesse and the Abwehr. Premium.’
‘That’s what she said, sir.’
‘So there you are chattin’. But she knows how it will end? If she doesn’t—’
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