by Rhys Bowen
“Welcome to my humble abode,” she said. “Does it remind you of your home?”
Margot took in the gilded furniture, the moulded ceiling, the heavy drapes, the soft carpet.
And flowers, flowers everywhere.
“Farleigh has a more lived-in feel to it,” she said. “This is pure luxury.”
“But of course.” Gigi Armande looked around with satisfaction. “I know it’s early, but I’ll order lunch, shall I? You must be starving. What would you like?”
Margot was speechless. For too long now, food had been whatever scraps one could find at the market—vegetable soups, rough bread that tasted like sawdust, meat almost never.
“Order what you like,” Gigi Armande had said. “You look as if you need fattening up.”
And like magic, a rich soup, an omelette aux fines herbes, a thin beefsteak with pommes frites, and a dessert of floating island, accompanied by a bottle of crisp Alsatian wine, had been brought up to the room. She was not at all sure of Gigi Armande’s part in this, whether she was a guardian angel sent from God, or a sly accomplice of the Germans, working to soften her up. But she wasn’t about to turn down good food when Paris had been starving for so long.
Margot had forced back her fears, drunk wine with dinner, and been able to sleep, but now with the bright light of day came the overwhelming feeling of despair. She was now quite aware that she was in a beautiful prison and could picture no good outcome. Of course she was being softened up, made to relax so that when the strike came, she would be caught off guard. It was only a matter of time before she was returned to the Gestapo. She wasn’t quite sure whether Gigi Armande was respected enough by the Germans that they accepted her guarantee to keep the prisoner safe or whether she was actively collaborating with them—part of the plot. It made little difference at this stage. All Margot knew was that she had to play along.
She felt the fear rising in her throat. She had to stay strong whatever happened, for Gaston’s sake as well as her own. If there was any chance that he was still alive and that they might release him, then she had to do whatever it took. If they thought she was merely the lover of someone who happened to be in the Resistance, an innocent bystander, she might be all right. But if they went over the flat thoroughly—tore it apart—then they would certainly find the radio. She didn’t think they would find the codebook. The pages were carefully inserted into a cheap novel, placed among other novels on a shelf. But the radio itself would be enough. They would take her back to Gestapo headquarters and attempt to break her. And only the fact that they wanted her alive for a particular mission would be her one trump card. She had to make them think that she would do their bidding.
There was the slightest chance that word would reach the right people about her fate. The small stamped, addressed envelope had been easy enough to slip in among the vegetables she took down to the concierge. She was sure Madame Armande hadn’t noticed as she put turnips and onions into a basket with the letter already lying at the bottom of it, written in pencil, Please mail this for me. The old concierge hated the Germans passionately and had watched with pity as Margot was taken away, so there was a chance the letter would be mailed. There was also a chance that the address was no longer a safe house for communication. Nothing was certain these days.
Madame Armande stretched luxuriantly, removed her sleep mask, and said, “Bonjour, ma petite,” as if it were any normal morning. “Do you wish to bathe first while I order breakfast?”
Margot took the chance, enjoying the hot water and sweet-smelling soaps. When she came out, Gigi Armande was on the telephone. She was laughing. “You are such a naughty boy,” she said. “Until later, then.” And she put the phone down.
She smiled and looked up at Margot. “Breakfast will be here shortly. They make the most marvellous croissants.”
Margot plucked up her courage as she went toward the balcony and stared out the windows. “Madame, I know this might seem impertinent, but why do the Germans let you stay on here in your old suite when the rest of the hotel is reserved for their officers?”
Madame Armande looked at her and laughed. “It is simple. I design lovely clothes for their wives, and I know everybody in Paris. I am useful to them. So they allow me to exist.”
Margot was sure that wasn’t the entire answer, but she said no more. She had just finished several croissants with real butter and real jam, not to mention real coffee, when there was a tap at the door.
Madame Armande called “Entrez” and in walked Herr Dinkslager, the Gestapo officer from the previous day.
“Good morning, good morning,” he said heartily. “What a beautiful day, is it not? The sort of day to be out and about and go for a ride in the Bois de Boulogne. I trust you slept well, my lady?”
“I did. Thank you.”
“I must apologise for the primitive nature of the bed.” He pointed at the foldaway bed that had been wheeled in for Margot. “It was the best we could do at such short notice.”
“There was no problem with the bed, mein Herr,” she said politely.
“Please take a seat.” He indicated the gilt-and-brocade side chair. Margot sat. The German pulled up a chair and sat looking at Margot. Madame Armande remained quietly in the background. “So the question is, what do we do with you now?” He paused. “I have colleagues who are dying to get their hands on you and make you talk, but I myself am a civilised sort of man. I believe we can communicate aristocrat to aristocrat.” He gave her a friendly smile.
Margot said nothing.
“I’m sure you must hate this stupid war as much as I do,” he said.
“We didn’t start it,” Margot replied evenly.
“Of course not. But you must realise that Hitler thinks highly of the British. We are two Aryan peoples, the cream of civilisation. We should be cooperating, not fighting. The Führer would like nothing better than to make peace with England, and I know this sentiment is shared with many of your people. If you could help to bring about this peace, wouldn’t you want to do so?”
“By peace do you mean capitulation? German occupation?”
“A benevolent occupation.”
“Is there such a thing?” she asked. “I heard about your benevolent occupation of Denmark and Norway.”
“We must crush those who are foolish enough to resist,” he replied easily. “But I’m sure you are wise enough to want to spare further English lives and cathedrals and stately homes like yours. What a terrible pity if your great heritage were to be reduced to rubble.”
“What is it you want me to do?” she asked suddenly.
He stared at her long and hard. “There are those in your country who are in sympathy with our cause, who would welcome their German brothers with open arms. You would meet up with them and assist in their plans.”
“Plans?”
“To remove those who stand in the way of peace, of course.”
Margot stared out the window. Pigeons were sitting on the edge of the balcony. Beyond them, white clouds scudded across a blue sky.
“And Gaston de Varennes?” she asked. “Part of the bargain would be to release him? To have him safely transported to a neutral country?”
Herr Dinkslager tipped his chair back, as if contemplating. “Ah, yes. The French lover. His devoted mistress who would do anything to save him.”
“I need to know if he is still alive,” Margot said.
“Still alive but being most uncooperative,” he replied. “We believe he can give us a great deal of information on the workings of the Resistance. But so far he has remained silent, in spite of all attempts.” He looked up at her, his light-blue eyes holding hers. “You see, this puts me in a difficult position, Lady Margaret. We need this information. And trust me, we will get it somehow. My superior officers are never going to agree to release him unless he tells us what he knows. So you could help his cause . . .” He paused and rocked his chair again. Margot focused on his highly polished boots, which reflected the light from the windo
ws.
“You don’t think that I could persuade him to talk?” In spite of her fear, she laughed. “I think you underestimate Gaston de Varennes. He is a very proud man. A very independent man.”
He rocked his chair forward suddenly, bringing his face close to hers. “You must see that things could not go well for you if you don’t cooperate, my dear. You lived with a leading member of the Resistance movement. He must have told you things, even small hints, things that he let slip. I could have you tortured or shot with one click of my fingers right now for aiding and abetting an enemy fighter.”
“But, apparently, I’m worth more to you alive than dead?” she said, sounding calmer than she felt.
The ghost of a smile crossed his face.
“You could be useful to us, that is true. But I should have no qualms in ordering your execution if you are not willing to cooperate.”
“But I’ve told you before, he shared no information with me.” Her voice had risen now, even though she fought to keep it even. “Not even that he was working with the Resistance. I have hardly seen him for months, and if we were together, then talk was the last thing on our minds.”
She heard Gigi Armande give a little snorting laugh as if she appreciated this touch of wit.
“But you suspected . . .” Herr Dinkslager asked.
“Yes, I suspected. But that’s all. He told me nothing. No names, no plans, nothing. He wanted to make sure I was safe, I suspect. That I could answer with absolute honesty should such a situation as this arise.”
“So we reach a stalemate,” Herr Dinkslager spread his hands in a gesture of futility. “I can’t have him released until he gives us vital information.”
“And I couldn’t consider carrying out any assignment for you until I knew he was safely far away . . . in Switzerland, or Portugal, maybe.”
“So you see my dilemma, Lady Margaret,” he said, studying his hands now. “I am under pressure to retrieve the information that your lover holds. But I personally would like to work toward peace—to have you as my ally in working toward peace. And I’m sure you would rather go home to your family alive and in one piece?”
A picture of Farleigh sprang unbidden into her mind—horse chestnuts blooming along the drive and herself out riding with Pamma and Dido, challenging them to a race, galloping across the grass. She wrenched herself back to reality.
“Of course, I would like to go home, but I can’t abandon Gaston. So you see my dilemma, Herr Dinkslager. You are asking me to betray my country to save my lover.”
“I am asking you to save your country from ruin. Think of your home. Think of Westminster Abbey. Do you want them all reduced to rubble? Thousands more people killed. Thousands more homeless. And in the end, those people will blame the ones who brought them to this misery. They will welcome the German army when it comes with rations and shelter and hope for a future.”
Margot didn’t want to believe this, but she had to admit that it was a possibility if the war went on long enough and the devastation continued.
“Let me see Gaston de Varennes,” she said. “Take me to him. I will do what I can.”
“Wise girl.” He nodded. “Get your coat. We’ll go now.”
Margot looked across at Madame Armande. She wanted to ask if Armande could come with them, but the designer said quickly, “Off you go, then. I have a fitting with Frau von Herzhofen.”
Margot allowed the German officer to escort her down the stairs and out to a waiting car. He opened the door and helped her into the backseat as if he were planning to take her to the opera. He climbed in beside her, and they drove off. Now that she was away from the safety of the Ritz, she fought back the rising panic. Was she being taken to Gaston or merely back to Gestapo headquarters where she herself would be questioned, or tortured, or killed? Had the pleasantries only been so that Madame Armande didn’t realise what was about to happen?
The trees along the Champs-Élysées were in full leaf as they drove up the hill to the Arc de Triomphe. In peacetime, the cafés bordering the street would have been full with people sitting at outdoor tables, enjoying an afternoon coffee. Now, the street was almost deserted. An old woman shuffled past, head bowed as if she didn’t want to be seen. Two German soldiers passed her, and she stepped aside for them. At Place de l’Étoile, that circle from which streets fanned out like the spokes of a wheel, they turned onto the wide boulevard of Avenue Foch. Before the war, this had been a good address. Tall, light stone houses with balconies and brightly painted shutters stood back from the road behind rows of trees. One would have expected to see elegant couples strolling, a little dog at their heels. Now, this street, too, was deserted, apart from German staff cars parked at the curb. When they had almost reached the end of the street at the Porte Dauphine, one of the old city gates, the car came to a halt. Margot read the house number, 84. I must remember this, she thought. Just in case. Not that she really hoped anyone would try to rescue her from what was clearly either Gestapo or similar headquarters. She clasped her hands together to stop them from shaking.
The driver came around to open the door for her, and again Herr Dinkslager escorted her inside as if he were ushering her into a good restaurant. The soldier at the door saluted. A conversation was held with a man in a black uniform. He nodded, then spoke into a telephone mouthpiece. They waited, nobody speaking. Then the telephone rang again, the man in the black uniform answered it and nodded to them. Herr Dinkslager said, “We go up now.”
They stepped together into a small Parisian iron-cage elevator, and the door clanged shut with finality. Up they went, floor after floor. Margot hadn’t realised the building was so tall; she had expected to be taken down to a basement or dungeon. At last the elevator wheezed and ground to a halt, and the door clanked open. She stepped out onto a landing and was motioned to go ahead of Herr Dinkslager to a door opposite. Her heels clicked loudly across the tiled floor, echoing back from the skylight above. Herr Dinkslager opened the door, took her arm, and propelled her inside. Margot’s heart was thudding so loudly in her chest that she could hardly breathe, but she walked in, head held high.
Two men scrambled to their feet, one tall, blond, and erect, almost a caricature of a German soldier. The other a scrawny shadow of a man, unkempt hair, filthy clothing, with an ugly bruise on his left cheek. His left eye was swollen half-shut. Margot let out an involuntary gasp.
“Gaston!” she exclaimed.
The man looked at her with horror. “For the love of God, Margot, what are you doing here?” He turned to the Germans. “This woman knows nothing. I have told her nothing. Not one word. Let her go immediately.”
“She came here of her own volition, Monsieur Le Comte. She is trying to institute your release to a neutral country, like Switzerland.”
Gaston stared at Margot but said nothing. She could not interpret his gaze.
“On what terms?” he demanded.
“That you supply us with the information we want.”
“I have told you before you waste your time. I will never betray my friends or my country, whatever you choose to do to me.”
“I see.” Dinkslager turned to Margot. “Please take a seat, your ladyship.”
He pulled out a plain upright chair at a wooden table, and she sat. He pulled out the other chair and sat beside her.
“It seems we have come here for nothing, Lady Margaret. Such a pity.”
“You would have me betray brave men?” Gaston asked her. He was looking at her coldly.
“No. Of course not,” she said. “I wanted proof that you were still alive.”
“I am alive, just. Now let her go,” he said to the Germans.
Herr Dinkslager picked up Margot’s hand. She flinched, but he held it tightly. “You have elegant hands, my lady,” he said. “An artist’s hands. And such long fingernails. Strange things, fingernails. We no longer need them now that we do not have to hunt our prey . . . in that manner.”
His voice was pleasant, but Margot felt fear
rising in her throat. He stroked her hand, playing with her fingers one by one.
“Since they are of no value, maybe we should just remove them?” He looked directly at Gaston. Margot wanted to snatch her hand away but couldn’t. She couldn’t let the German see she was afraid. He held out his hand to the young agent, who passed him something that looked like a thin piece of wood. Without saying another word he took this and placed it under the nail of Margot’s forefinger. He looked up questioningly at Gaston, who remained immobile. Then he pushed down inside the nail. The pain was so red-hot and searing that tears spurted from her eyes. She clamped her lips together to prevent herself from crying out.
“Shall I go on?” He looked up at Gaston. “You wish your beloved to suffer for your stubbornness?”
Gaston remained silent.
“Shall I tear off the nails, one by one? And then there are worse things that can happen to her. This young man here, he has appetites and has been too long without a woman.”
Margot watched the blood welling up onto the wood, then she looked up at Gaston’s face. His expression hadn’t changed. She waited for him to say something.
Then he said, in a cold voice. “She is not my beloved, and you may cut her into little pieces for all I care. But it will not make me change my mind. I will not betray my colleagues and my country, whatever you do. But I must state that I find it dishonourable that you should torture somebody else to try to extract information from me. I am sorry if this woman tried to help in a misguided sense of loyalty to me. However, if you sent me to Switzerland, I should come straight back and join the Resistance again. Why don’t we stop wasting each other’s time, and you kill me right now?”
Margot pulled the wedge out of her bleeding finger and stood up. “Take me away,” she said. “I will do what you want.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
At Farleigh
After breakfast the next morning, Ben cycled over to Farleigh—to check on the damage, he told his father. At first glance, it appeared that nothing had changed: The horse chestnuts still bloomed. Swans were still swimming on the lake, and the great house stood, strong and defiant against a blustery sky. But the smell of burning lingered in the air, and the wind tossed down burnt fragments like a fine black shower. Then he noticed that the top-floor windows were open, and net curtains flapped out as if appealing for help. He shuddered again when he thought what might have happened to Pamela if he hadn’t been there. The beam would have fallen on her. She might have been overcome by smoke inhalation, and she would only have been found much later. He remembered the feel of her body against his as he flung her forward. The way their hearts thudded in time. Then he shook his head firmly.
