Eva was gone for most of the morning, but when she returned it was with the keys to her brother-in-law’s car. She looked uncomfortable when she came into the room and said something under her breath to Pau, who twitched his head to one side in a sort of lopsided shrug. He took the keys and held them up, jingling them in the air. ‘He can’t drive you there; he is too busy, but he will let you have the car.’
Grainger’s face brightened. ‘Great stuff,’ he said enthusiastically and put out his hand to take the keys.
‘There is one condition though.’ Pau threw a quick glance at Eva. ‘You can have the car for as long as you need but you must pay him 200 francs.’ He paused, then added, ‘And you must agree to pay for any damage you do to it.’ He stopped again and waited for Grainger’s response. Grainger nodded slowly.
‘It is a very fine car. You will need to be careful with it. He is very proud of it.’ Grainger agreed, and taking out two 100 franc notes handed them over.
‘One other thing. I cannot go to Lézignan with you but if you need me you can phone to this number. It’s the restaurant in the square – they will find me.’
*
The road to Lézignan was almost empty as they left the city, heading back towards Villedaigne over the route they had ridden across the day before. Inside the city most of the traffic had circulated, staying within the perimeter of the urban centre, not often going out onto the radial roads that led north-east to Béziers or west to Carcassonne. After the crush of the traffic it was good to be somewhere so deserted. On either side the country road was flanked by steep rock formations topped with coarse grass and stunted trees. A short way further on the terrain changed – flattened, giving itself over to fields of dark stubby vines, pruned back to almost nothing and waiting for the first warmth of spring to burst their buds.
Then, without warning, a couple of kilometres short of Villedaigne they ran into a traffic block. In front of them an aged Renault truck sat silently in the middle of the road with its engine switched off. Grainger’s first thought was it had broken down and he got out to see what was wrong, but when he walked round to the front of the vehicle he was confronted by a spectacle he had not anticipated: a sea of sheep was crossing the road ahead, hundreds of them, bleating and clanking the tuneless bells some had hanging around their necks. Evangeline came to join him and called up to the driver of the truck.
‘They are going to the hills,’ the driver shouted down. ‘They have been down here all winter and they’re going back up to the spring pastures before the weather gets too hot and the grass down here dries up. You just have to wait – it won’t be long.’
When they got back to the car several other vehicles had pulled up behind them and a queue had started to form. Eventually, after what seemed an age, the engine of the truck clanked into life; the truck shuddered then staggered into motion. They passed through Villedaigne still stuck behind the truck until at last the road straightened. Grainger pulled out and put his foot down hard on the accelerator; the car surged forward and they were free.
‘This thing’s got some poke, all right,’ he grinned, glad to be moving. He was the old Grainger again, she thought; the anger seemed to have gone for the moment. But that moment was short-lived. Ahead a car was parked just off the verge of the road and, as they passed it, Grainger caught a fleeting glance of a man standing beside it. Looking in the rear-view mirror, he saw the man get in and the car then pulled onto the highway. Grainger again put his foot down hard, pushing the car speed up to 120 kilometres an hour. The ride got rough and uncomfortable, forcing Evangeline to put out a hand and grasp the armrest on the door to steady herself. ‘Do we have to go this fast?’
‘I think we’re being followed. It’s the man on the bridge of the canal. I saw him just now – he got into the car that’s behind us.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes – at least I think so. That’s why I’ve pushed the speed up. I want to see if he tries to stay with us.’
‘Why don’t you slow down? Surely if he is following us he will stay behind – keep his distance.’
‘I have a better idea. There’s a hill coming up. If I can find a turnoff on the other side of the rise I’ll take it. Then we’ll see what happens.’
There was no turning but there was a layby with a screen of trees that shielded it from the road. ‘This’ll do,’ he shouted and slewed the vehicle off the road and behind the trees. Seconds later a large brown Peugeot shot past; within yards of passing, the brake lights on the Peugeot flickered. ‘He’s seen us.’ Grainger put the car in gear and drove back out onto the road. ‘Okay,’ he said quietly, almost to himself, ‘let’s see what you do now.’
They followed the Peugeot, keeping back a hundred metres or so until they reached the outskirts of Lézignan. ‘This’ll do,’ Grainger said cheerfully, and took a sudden turn to the left. It was too late for the car in front to do anything and it carried on into the town. Grainger zig-zagged his way randomly through the back streets until he was satisfied they were unlikely to be found, then pulled over and stopped the engine. Evangeline looked at him sideways.
‘What now?’
‘Now we start looking for Kasha.’
‘How do you propose we do that?’
‘Well, we could try the hotels; I saw one on the main drag as we came into the town. They will have to stay somewhere. At the same time we can find somewhere for us to stay.’ He got out of the car, collected his grip off the back seat then locked the doors. He threw Evangeline’s knapsack over his shoulder and started off in the direction he guessed was the centre of town. ‘Come on,’ he called to her, ‘we won’t get anything done standing around here.’ She looked at him and wondered if he knew what he was doing. He’s a strange one this Englishman, she thought, not at all like most men she had met; how could he be so irritatingly cheerful knowing things were potentially so dangerous.
They found the first hotel in the main street running through the centre of the town. Hôtel Le Crémaillère had seen better days but it had rooms available and, according to the patron, one had a bathroom en suite. He took them up a solid tiled staircase to the second landing and opened the door. ‘It used to be the honeymoon suite,’ he said, glancing furtively at Evangeline.
They took the room with the en suite bathroom. It was large with a huge double bed and a single tucked away in an adjoining room that had its own washbasin. The wallpaper was lifting in places and the carpet, which in another life must have been a vibrant blue and gold – was now faded and beginning to show balding patches of weave.
‘I’ll take the box room with the cot.’ Grainger threw her knapsack onto the double bed and put his grip in the adjoining room; then, without saying anything, he went downstairs to the reception. He stood in the lobby and looked around to see if he was alone. Certain that he was he went over to the reception desk and found the guest register. He leafed through the two previous days but there was nothing.
‘Can I help you, monsieur?’ He turned to see a woman standing watching him; she was short and broad, almost square, and there was the trace of a moustache on her top lip. He figured she must be the wife of the patron because they were of a similar age and, for one ludicrous moment, he pictured them together – in the honeymoon suite.
‘I need to register,’ he said, thinking on his feet.
Back in the room he could hear the sound of splashing water coming from the bathroom so he went into his own room to wash. There was a single window that looked out onto the street and from there he could see the road the hotel was in as it ran away from him into the town. He stared at the scene for a moment. Kasha was somewhere out there; so was the man in the brown Peugeot – maybe there were others. He moved away from the window and went back into the main bedroom. It occurred to him that he ought to let her know he was back and he went over to knock on the bathroom door, but as he raised his knuckles to rap on it the door opened and there was Evangeline fresh from the bath – moist, pink and absolutely nak
ed. He stood open-mouthed for a moment.
‘Aghh!’ He let out an involuntary sort of shout of surprise and physically jumped back; he had never seen a woman quite this naked before. Evangeline laughed, grabbed a towel and wrapped it around her. ‘Sorry,’ he blurted out.
‘Don’t be. It didn’t hurt,’ she smiled and, walking into the bedroom, sat on the end of the bed. ‘I’ve left the water in the bath if you want to use it – it’s still quite hot.’
‘There are three other hotels in this town,’ he called from the bathroom. ‘We should pay them a visit and see if they know anything.’
The Hôtel Terminus was opposite the railway station, but there had been no recent guests of that description. The concierge suggested they try the Hôtel Luxembourg, which was deeper into the town centre not far from the Hôtel de Ville; if that failed there was the Hôtel Le Tournedos on the road out of town in the direction of the village of Lagrasse. The girl on reception at the Luxembourg listened while Evangeline gave a description of the couple they were looking for. She leafed through the register, slowly shaking her head and trying to recall each of the guests as their names appeared. Finally she gave up. ‘Non, désolée.’ She let the heavy leather cover of the register fall shut with a soft thump.
By the time they got to the Hôtel Le Tournedos it was dark and the day had yielded nothing. The patron listened as they told him the story they had told the others: their friends had come to the area for a short vacation and they were anxious to join up with them. While they were talking and the patron was explaining that they had not had any guests in the hotel since New Year’s Eve, a waitress came through from the restaurant.
‘Tomorrow is market day,’ she suggested. ‘It’s very popular; you may find them there.’
‘It’s a longshot,’ Grainger said without enthusiasm. ‘We can give it a go and if that turns up a blank then we should go back to Narbonne. I don’t know what the devil Kasha is playing at, but I don’t think we’ll find him here.’
That night she lay awake listening to him breathing in his small bed in his even smaller room. She thought for an instant she heard him get up and she held her breath; maybe he’d come in, slide in under the covers. After all, he had seen her totally buck naked – that must have raised some carnal interest. She waited but nothing happened and eventually nothing more than sleep came to her.
*
The market was a seething mass of buyers and traders; it was almost impossible to move from one stall to the next. The day was fine and warm – the Mediterranean spring had arrived. The cafés flowed out onto the pavements, setting up tables, serving beers and coffees, small glasses of wine. Trapped in the press it was impossible to see more than a few yards ahead but if Kasha was there they would see him. Most of the customers pushing and shoving, feeling the fruit, prodding the vegetables and arguing the prices were local Catalans – short and suntanned to a swarthy mahogany with dark hair and darker eyes. Kasha would tower over these people and his blondeness would mark him out. The main street running through the town had been closed to make way for the market and the throng seemed to be moving in a great elongated circuit up one side of the road then back down the other.
‘Why don’t we just sit here,’ Evangeline suggested, and took a place at one of the tables outside a café they were passing. ‘This crowd is going round in a circle; sooner or later everyone in the market will come past us.’
‘Makes sense.’
A waiter with a tray of full glasses balanced expertly above his head and supported only on the tips of his fingers spotted them and came over to take their order. ‘Two cafés au lait, and I need to eat,’ Evangeline told him. ‘Do you have any croissants?’ She looked at the sea of passing faces but of Kasha there was no sign. ‘I don’t think this will work,’ she said, and shrugged.
Grainger nodded agreement. ‘We should go back to Narbonne and rethink things.’
The waiter came across with the bill on a saucer and put it down in front of Grainger who fished out his wallet. As he opened it an idea occurred to him; going into the inner folds of the leather pouch he took out a folded sheet of paper. He flattened out the folds and held it up to the waiter. ‘Ask him if he knows where this is.’
‘What is it?’
‘A copy of the sketch Kasha has in that oilcloth package.’
The waiter scrutinised it, slowly shaking his head. ‘Could be anywhere in Catalonia,’ he shrugged. ‘There are plenty of towers like this all over.’ He started to hand it back, then held up a finger. ‘Chef,’ he yelled into the bar, ‘any idea where this is?’ He took the paper to the bar and spread it out on the counter top. Grainger and Evangeline followed him. A man in an off-white shirt with a tea towel thrown over one shoulder and a drooping moustache appeared from a back kitchen and leaned on the counter.
‘What is it?’ he said grumpily. The waiter turned the paper round to show him. The chef pulled a pair of glasses from his pocket, shoved them onto his nose, then picked up the paper to study it. ‘No idea,’ he said, adding another shrug to their day. ‘Pedro,’ he yelled at an elderly customer sitting brooding over a beer. ‘Have a look at this.’ He turned to Evangeline. ‘If anyone knows old Pedro will – whether you can understand what he says is another matter,’ he half laughed and half wheezed. ‘He has never spoken a word of French all the time I’ve known him.’
Pedro got up shakily from his chair; in a stooped gait he shuffled over to the counter and joined the others. The chef showed him the sketch. Pedro looked puzzled and started shaking his head in unison with a number of other customers. There were shrugs and choruses of ‘non’ and ‘ne sais pas’ as the paper was handed back to Grainger, who looked disappointed.
A man who had newly joined the pack and who had stood at the back now put out a hand. ‘Let me see.’
Grainger handed the sketch across. The man furrowed his brow and walked to the door of the café where he stopped. He stared over at a stall loaded with cheeses. ‘Louis! he bellowed,’ The cheese seller looked up and, seeing the man beckoning him, handed the double-handled guillotine – with which he had been slicing a gigantic mountain cheese – to his assistant and walked over. The man who had yelled to him turned the paper to show Louis. ‘Fabrezan?’ He said, looking for confirmation.
Louis looked at the faces around him, all replete with expectation. ‘Fabrezan,’ he concurred.
The man handed the paper back to Grainger. ‘Fabrezan,’ he repeated. He turned to his now admiring audience who were beginning to nod knowingly now that it had been pointed out to them. ‘Fabrezan,’ he said again as if the answer had been obvious. The chef took the paper and he too began to nod, ‘It is true; that is the old watch tower at Fabrezan. It was full of wine for years but it is not used now.’
‘Where is Fabrezan?’ Grainger stood looking at the chef in expectation.
‘It is a village about eight kilometres from here on the road to Lagrasse. Here, I’ll draw you a map.’ He scribbled out a few lines on the back of the sketch. ‘Leave the town on the route going due south, past the Château de Gaujac. The road is straight and goes directly into the village. You can’t miss it. When you get to the bridge of the Orbieu river stop on Le Quai. Look back on yourself and you will see it.’
CHAPTER 21
Over the mountains
Schreiber walked into the Prefect’s office where he had been expected. The Prefect was suspicious of this German who was now making demands. Orders had come directly from Vichy to give all assistance but he had a natural distrust of the Boche; he had fought them in the Great War – and this one was Gestapo.
‘I need four gendarmes,’ Schreiber said. ‘I need to make an arrest. Berlin has uncovered a British spy ring; it is operating close to the town of Lézignan-Corbières. I shall need transport as well – one car, and a van to bring back the prisoners.’
*
In the office at Rue Lauriston in Paris a phone rang. ‘It’s for you, boss.’ The man who had answered it held the rece
iver out to Inspector Bonny. ‘Says he has some important information.’
*
They made their way to where they had parked the car in a side street not far from the town centre. It was still there, just as they had left it. Away from the market the street was quiet and empty, but even so they approached the car with caution. Grainger was unlocking the driver’s door when a man stepped out from a doorway not more than fifty metres away and started walking quickly towards them. His hat was pulled well down over his eyes; it was a few seconds before Grainger recognised him. It was the man in the gabardine raincoat, the man who had followed them in the brown Peugeot. Grainger shot a quick glance at Evangeline.
‘Look out, we’ve got visitors.’ Evangeline froze as the man seemed to quicken his stride and closed the distance between them.
‘Come on.’ Grainger grabbed her by the arm and pulled her into action. He walked her briskly across the street and along the fenced edge until they came to a large iron gate that let onto a public park. ‘In here.’ He shoved the gate open. Inside, the park was veiled with dense shrubs and tall trees. As he got to a thicket of bamboo and oleander he stopped. ‘Keep walking,’ he said in a low steady voice; she hesitated and slowed her pace.
‘Richard, what are you going to do?’ There was anxiety in her voice, but he just nodded in the direction of the path.
‘Go to the other side and wait for me there.’ He gave her the keys to the car. ‘Can you drive?’
‘Of course.’
‘If I don’t come out the other side take the car and go back to Pau. Then get the hell across the mountains. Don’t hang around.’ He took out the automatic pistol from his grip and handed the bag to her. ‘Look after this for me.’ He stuffed the gun into his jacket pocket and pushed her in the direction of the path. ‘Go!’
A few seconds later he heard the sound of the gate being opened, grating on its dry rusting hinges. It was a slow cautious groaning – it was being opened carefully. He took hold of the gun and stepped back into the cover of the bamboo then waited. The sound of hard-soled shoes on the gravel path told him his pursuer was near; he let his body relax and slowed his breath. Now he could see him, no more than six feet away. He was a man of medium height but strongly built and the way he held his body gave the air of muscular strength. A few more steps and the man was past. Now was the time. Grainger stepped out from the cover of the bamboo and, lifting the gun in a straight arm, pointed it directly at the middle of the man’s back.
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