The Girl in the Baker's Van

by Richard Savin

  Schreiber was ushered into a high ceilinged room, lavish with velvet and pre-revolutionary furniture; the carpet was deep with carefully woven hunting scenes and forest motifs redolent of a Loire chateau. It was not his taste but he didn’t care; these people would help him to find his quarry and that was all that was important. The Prefect was seated at a substantial polished mahogany table but he stood up as Schreiber entered the room and courteously invited him to sit down, indicating a chair that had been placed opposite. He was a man in his middle age, of medium build with a greying handlebar moustache, a slightly distended belly and thinning on top. As he stood looking at Schreiber through a pair of tortoiseshell-framed glasses the latter thought the Prefect rather ordinary, like a common shopkeeper; he had expected a more sophisticated, urbane character.

  Next to the Prefect the Chief of Police presented a better image. He was tall; his uniform had been well tailored and he had a good thick head of steel-grey hair. Schreiber judged him to be well into his 50s but he had clearly looked after his body. The posture was good and the muscles well formed. The man gave a good impression and Schreiber got a sense of competence, which he respected. Hands were extended and shaken, then they waited for the man from the Gestapo to be seated before they too sat down.

  ‘Welcome to Lyon, Kriminalinspector. My name is Edouard Delahaye and I am the Prefect for the department of Rhône.’ He turned to look at the other man. ‘This is Commissaire Duval. We are at your service,’ he smiled politely. ‘How can we be of assistance?’

  ‘You have been briefed by Berlin?’

  Duval nodded. ‘We have been told only that you are hunting a man – and to assist you with everything you need.’

  When he entered the building Schreiber had already decided he would not tell these people everything. Too much information would not help and, besides, they were French and he was not sure how far he could trust them. ‘I am looking for two people – one man and one woman. The man is dangerous and clever. He is a Polish agent working for the Americans, probably the British too. The woman is not dangerous but she is resourceful and seems to be lucky, at least so far.’

  Delahaye again smiled. He wanted to be helpful to this German; a recommendation to the Pétain regime could be useful to his career. The Minister for the Interior, Laval, had notified all civil servants that they should cooperate with Berlin and their German counterparts. The less charitable used another word: collaboration.

  ‘I understand from Berlin that the woman has some kind of package with her. Do we know what it is?’

  ‘We do not. Find her and we shall.’

  ‘Do you, perhaps, have photographs of your fugitives?’ Duval asked.

  Schreiber took a photo from his pocket and laid it on the table. ‘This was taken not much more than a week ago at Fresnes Prison. I have nothing for the girl. However, she is from Alsace and her accent will be quite particular. She also has fair hair and a pale complexion – the people here are much darker. She shouldn’t be too hard to spot.’

  The Commissaire turned the picture towards him. ‘Very distinctive, that’s useful. How tall is your man?’

  ‘Tall – one eighty-seven – and strongly built.’

  Duval passed the picture to Delahaye, who gave it no more than a cursory glance. ‘Well, Inspector, we shall do our best to find them.’

  ‘I will have the descriptions and the photograph circulated,’ Duval added. ‘I will have men watch the bridges; if they are out there then sooner or later they will cross one of them.’

  ‘They are out there,’ Schreiber replied curtly. ‘I’m staying at the Hotel Terminus in Perrache. Contact me there if you hear anything at all – even the smallest piece of information.’ He stood up and they all shook hands.

  *

  ‘The Lutheran bitch has to be found!’ Father Guillaume smoothed his hand slowly across a bible that sat open on the lectern as if calling for divine intervention to bring a revisionist Protestant heretic to judgment. His voice carried a note of controlled frustration and he let the words fall slowly, almost threateningly. ‘The little vixen lied to me, threatened my choirmaster with a gun, and still she has the package.’

  ‘And she has my money. I want it back.’ Kasha banged his fist impatiently on back of a wooden pew.

  The priest ignored the remark; in his mind he had moved on. ‘What about the Englishman? How much does he know? Does he know about the girl or the package?’

  Kasha shook his head slowly, but there was a doubting tone to his voice. ‘I’m sure he doesn’t know about the girl. If he did he would have asked questions by now – and he hasn’t; and if he doesn’t know about the girl then he won’t know about the rest of the plans.’ He dropped into a sullen silence for a few seconds, then shrugged his broad shoulders. ‘He’s been told to get me safely to the Americans. That’s what he’ll do; he’s English, naïve and arrogant – stupid.’ He let go the words with a sneer on his face that had the priest shaking his head like a teacher mildly despairing of a pupil who has said more than he should.

  ‘Don’t you like the British?’

  ‘They gave away my country; what is there to like about them? I prefer the Germans – at least with them you know you are dealing with an enemy.’

  ‘Well, you need him for now so take care of him. I don’t want to hear of any unfortunate accidents; it wouldn’t look good to our British friends if they thought we had been careless with one of their people.’

  There was a knock at the side door to the sacristy and the sound of the handle being turned. ‘That will be Paul. He has brought your Englishman. We need to give him a good story because he’ll want to move on and just now nobody can go anywhere until we have found the girl and can recover your property.’

  As he opened the door to let in Paul and Grainger he changed his demeanour and greeted them warmly, congratulating Grainger on getting Kasha to them. ‘How is it out there?’ he asked Paul casually.

  ‘Busy, Father. The gendarmes have staked out all the bridges; they’re stopping cars and checking people – even people walking. I think they are looking for your man here,’ and he pointed a finger at Kasha.

  ‘So what’s the plan?’ Grainger said glibly.

  The priest smiled benignly; the gendarmes had provided him with the perfect excuse. ‘We shall have to wait a little longer until the Hôtel de Ville becomes bored and decides to play some other game – but I would like to ask you a question if you will permit me.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘There was a girl; she was travelling with Kasha,’ the priest paused his eyes widened in anticipation. ‘Did you know of her? She has disappeared and we are most anxious to find her.’

  ‘Cigale? She’s missing?’

  ‘No, not Cigale. There is another girl.’

  Grainger looked blank. ‘No fraid not, can’t help on that one.’

  The priest assumed an ingratiating smirk. ‘Just a thought,’ he said, ‘just a thought.’

  ‘Is it important – the girl I mean?’

  ‘No, no, I’m sure she will be found. Have you or Mathieu heard anything, Paul?’

  Paul said nothing, just shook his head and shrugged.

  *

  That night he heard it again; someone was moving outside but the résistants had gone south. Then he heard a toilet flush. On an impulse he got out of bed and opened the door just in time to see a woman disappearing into a room further along the corridor. She must have heard him because as she entered her room she turned and looked. She hesitated briefly, then shut the door.

  Again the next morning he woke to the smell of coffee. When he went down to the dining room there she was sitting at the table, a croissant in one hand and a knife laden with jam in the other. She spread the jam on the croissant and shot him an embarrassed glance, but said nothing.

  ‘You’re the missing girl, aren’t you!’ he said, looking straight at her. It was a statement rather than a question.

  At that moment Paul and Mathieu came into the ro
om. Both looked sheepishly at Grainger and then at the girl. ‘Since you saw her last night we thought we should introduce you.’

  The first effect on Grainger was irritation as he quickly concluded he had run into some kind of local feud; it was an unwelcome complication. He stared accusingly at the brothers. ‘I take it this is the girl Father Guillaume is looking for – not to mention the gendarmes who are swarming all over this town.’

  ‘There is an explanation,’ Paul finally said, still looking uncomfortable about the situation.

  ‘It needs to be good,’ Grainger fired back at him. ‘I need to know what the hell is going on around here.’ There was an awkward silence – only a few seconds long but it cleared the air.

  Evangeline looked at Grainger. Her expression alone made a statement, a forced half-smile half-indignant grimace, a mixture of anger and embarrassment. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, struggling with the best she could muster of her mostly forgotten schoolgirl English. ‘I do not wish to be a difficult person to you. I just need to go to the south – away from here.’

  ‘Hmm – do you have a plan – to go south I mean?’ He turned to Paul. ‘How will you square this with Father Guillaume? He’s not going to be too happy from what I’ve seen.’

  Paul shrugged; he hadn’t really given it too much thought. ‘I shall need to tell him – but not yet.’

  ‘What about this package they’re looking for?’ He inclined his head towards Evangeline. ‘Do you still have it?’

  She shook her head, but nodded at the same time.

  ‘What the hell does that mean?’

  ‘It means she doesn’t have it here with her, but she can get it,’ Mathieu butted in.

  There was another silence. Evangeline looked at him, waiting to see his response. This man, she sensed, could help her; she just wasn’t quite sure if he would.

  ‘You should tell him your story,’ Mathieu said quietly, ‘so he will understand.’

  ‘That might be a good starting point,’ Grainger responded with a mild touch of sarcasm in his voice. ‘It always helps to know what is actually going on.’ With the help of Paul where her grasp of English failed her and with Grainger putting his questions in French, the bare skeleton of a story was tortuously assembled and then clothed with the fleshy detail. Finally, when it was all told the debate on what to do started.

  ‘We have to get the package back to Kasha,’ Grainger concluded, ‘but you need to stay clear of them.’ Evangeline nodded, indicating her agreement.

  ‘Give me the ticket. I’ll go to Perrache.’

  Paul looked worried. ‘It’s risky; you need to be careful.’

  ‘They’re looking for Kasha and Evangeline. I don’t think they know anything about me.’

  ‘You could be caught in a roadblock. They are stopping traffic all over the city, especially close to the railway station – they’ll be watching that. If you insist on going then cross the river up here in the 6th, it’s quieter; then drive down to Perrache. That’ll be safer.’

  Mathieu opened the gate and the Citroen drove out heading north for the Raymond Poincaré Bridge; he calculated the gendarmes would concentrate on crossings going south. After that he would swing round south and drive directly to Perrache.

  When he had gone the others set their minds to the task of getting out of the city. It was only a matter of time before Father Guillaume got onto them; they now considered him as much a threat to her as the gendarmes. The conversation came round to Grainger. Eventually the question came up. ‘Can we trust him?’ Evangeline asked, not sure of her ground.

  ‘I don’t think he would betray us,’ Paul said. ‘He’s English – they’re strange about that kind of thing.’

  CHAPTER 14

  Discoveries and revelations

  In the bar of the Terminus Hotel Schreiber ordered a glass of beer and sat with it in the solitude of his own company; he lit a cigarette. He was mentally examining the position when a waiter came to find him with a message.

  ‘Excuse me, monsieur,’ he said deferentially, ‘there is a telephone call for you; it’s from Berlin. If you go to the main desk the concierge will direct you to the correct cabin.’

  ‘Becker, have you found something?’

  ‘I have, Inspector.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘A witness has come forward – a woman. She says Herr Kandler didn’t fall. She says he was pushed; she’s sure of it.’

  ‘Is she reliable?’

  ‘I believe she is.’

  ‘Did she give any description?’

  ‘She did. She says it was a man with dark hair, quite stocky, and not so tall – about one metre fifty.’

  ‘And she’s certain?’

  ‘She says she is.’

  Schreiber pondered the information for a moment. It had upset his theory. ‘Anything else?’

  ‘No, Inspector.’

  ‘All right, keep digging.’

  Replacing the receiver he left the cabin. So that confirmed it. Kandler was pushed. It was not suicide; it was murder, just as he had thought, but the woman’s description ruled out the Pole and that perplexed him. Contemplating the new information, he decided to leave the hotel and take a walk. It was just three in the afternoon and the winter sky was still quite light. He would find it easier to think out in the open without the conversations of others invading his mind, interrupting his thoughts. He had been so sure it was the Pole who had pushed Kandler under the train. Now he would have to think again.

  Out on the street he walked slowly in the direction of the station, trying to piece together in his mind what had happened, going over what information he had gathered. If the Pole was not the killer, then who was? Kandler had been closing files – but why, and on whose orders? The young man they had at Natzweiler, Alain Pfeiffer, had given them nothing, probably because he knew nothing. He had received a package from a woman named Cigale, but she was a stranger to him – and he had no idea who she was or what was in the package. The package was meant for the Pole, Kasha – he knew that much. According to Kraus, Kasha was an agent working for the Americans and Kraus was onto him; that was another fact of which he could be sure. But now Kraus was missing, probably killed by Kasha, who had gone on the run with Pfeiffer’s sister, Evangeline. The evidence all shouted that. Why she had gone with Kasha was another unknown, but if she was still with him that was a weakness which Schreiber thought he might be able to exploit.

  It was while he was reviewing this evidence that he saw something that struck him as odd. On the opposite side of the road a car was parked. Nothing unusual in that as there were cars parked all along the street. But when a man walked up to it and opened the passenger door something peculiar happened. The man went to get in – then with his body half in and half out he stopped, got out and went round to the driver’s door, where he opened it and got in behind the wheel; he closed the door and started the engine. What was particular about this event was that he had seen the same man do the same thing two days before when he first arrived. As the car drove away Schreiber took out his notebook and jotted down the registration number. Abandoning his walk, he returned to the hotel and there went straight to the reception.

  ‘I need to put in an urgent call to the Prefecture. How quickly can you do that for me?’

  ‘Immediately sir.’ The receptionist pointed to the booths. ‘Please go to cabin number two and I will put the line through. Is there anyone in particular you wish to be connected to?’

  ‘Yes, Commissaire Duval.’

  It was that time of the day when Duval took his afternoon break and he was drinking coffee as the call came through. He was about to tell the girl on the Prefecture switchboard that he did not like to be disturbed during his coffee break, but when she said it was the Kriminalinspector from Berlin he changed his mind. He was surprised to hear from him so soon after their meeting.

  ‘How can I help, Inspector?’

  ‘I’ve just seen a man try to get into the wrong side of a car in order to dri
ve it.’

  ‘Explain.’

  ‘He got halfway into the passenger side, then got out and went around to the left side. I think it was a reflex action; I think he was expecting to find the steering wheel on the right side of the car. That is how the British drive – on the wrong side of the road. I think the man is a British agent.’

  ‘Interesting theory.’

  ‘I need to trace the car – a black Citroen 15 CV.’ Schreiber read out the numbers and letters he’d jotted down.

  ‘A Paris plate,’ Duval said, thinking out loud. ‘Leave it with me. I will make enquiries and, in the meantime, I shall alert our patrols watching the bridges.’ Schreiber went to his room with a sense of achievement; uncovering a British spy would be a bonus.

  He was preparing to go to bed when the thought occurred to him: a British agent and a Polish agent both in Lyon at the same time. Could there be a connection?

  *

  Grainger dumped the package on the table. It was the first time Paul or Mathieu had seen it. Paul put out his hand in curiosity and rang a finger over the shiny surface of the oilcloth which formed the outer covering.

  ‘What is it?’ Mathieu asked, looking from Grainger to Evangeline.

  Evangeline shrugged. ‘Just some sketches and a key. I don’t know what they mean.’ She hesitated for a moment. She decided to say nothing about the money; she was still not sure who she could trust. Grainger picked up the packet and examined the broken wax seal. He laid out the sketches on the table, then picked up the key. He ran a finger from one sketch to another slowly, trying to work out the significance of what sat there on the table in front of him.

  Mathieu stared at him, expecting a revelation. ‘What is it?’ he asked impatiently.

  Grainger shook his head slowly. ‘No idea,’ he said, scooping everything up. ‘I need time to think on this.’ He got up from the table, wrapped the sketches and the key loosely in the oilcloth and announced he would take it to his room.