by John Gardner
‘I’ll bet it did,’ muttered Caspar, closing the file. It was late and he was not yet halfway through the First Folio, although C’s research already made terrible sense. It was interesting to see that all these messages had come from three quite separate files – one an outdated SIS Registry folder marked ‘Dead Ciphers’; another from ‘Defunct Cases: Germany’; while the facts of Mannus’ death were in a pensions file from the Foreign office.
*
Arnold Farthing, traveling on a Canadian passport as Adrian Fox from Toronto, took the early BEA flight to Paris the following morning. He checked in at the modest Hôtel Moderne near the Place de la Reépublique. It was far from moderne, but suited his needs, for Arnie expected to be in the city for only twenty-four hours.
It was a fine, warm autumn day, and Arnold walked toward the Place de la République, stopping by a café where he sat at a sidewalk table, drank coffee, and ate a roll stuffed with ham and mustard. Paris was almost its old self again and smelled of strong coffee and that particularly pungent French tobacco. He collected a handful of 25c pieces at the café counter, then walked – in Paris he liked walking, and on this occasion he had the added reason to check in case he was being followed. Arnie was still hungover by the people who had shadowed Naldo and himself in London; and then the night dash they had been forced to make from Munich to Frankfurt. It was also possible that Roger Fry was taking an extra interest in his movements.
All seemed clear. He spent half an hour ‘walking the doubles’ and came up with nothing unusual. At last he went into a public phone booth, which allowed him an almost all-round view as he dialled several numbers.
He had come armed with the list of names and addresses given to him by Richard. There were also some telephone numbers. He dialled three, only to find that, with the Occupation and return to normality, they had been changed. On the fourth call he got lucky. The man he wanted would meet him on the Rive Gauche – in a particular bar-tabac within the hour. At last he was able to start his quiet investigation into the lives of Caroline Railton Farthing and Josephine Grenot, who had once lived in a tiny flat in the Rue de la Huchette.
The man he was about to see had been a leading name in the Maquis, which made it an even bet that he held left-wing views, if not actually a member of the Communist Party – Stalin had dissolved the International, the Comintern, during the war. Also, the man Arnie had just spoken to had been Caroline’s and Jo-Jo’s landlord during the few years they had lived in Paris.
The bar was crowded, even in the middle of the afternoon, and the person Arnie sought did not appear to have arrived – they had arranged a very simple recognition code, Paris-Soir opened at page 4 and folded in Arnie’s left hand. The contact would have a paper packet of Gauloises stuck into his breast pocked, bottom up.
Arnie stood at the bar and ordered a cassis. Ten minutes later a small man wearing a battered beret elbowed in next to him and asked the barman for a packet of Gauloises, which he took, carefully placing them bottom up in the breast pocket of his somewhat ancient jacket. He then turned toward Arnie and grinned.
‘Are you English?’ he asked in French.
‘No, Canadian.’ Arnie studied the man’s face. He was someone who would go quite unrecognised in a crowd, having the kind of features which, once seen, were immediately forgotten. An ideal face for a crook or an agent.
‘Let’s take a walk.’ The Frenchman spoke good English.
In the clear sunshine they strolled down toward the river.
Arnie leaned against a wall and gave the Frenchman a quick glimpse of his Communist Party card – an excellent facsimile run up in Washington under the name of Fox.
‘You are close to the cause, I understand,’ he said, going out on a precarious limb.
The Frenchman nodded, then put out a hand. His name was Claude Manceau and he had a tight firm grip. He asked how he could help.
‘Just before the war you rented a small apartment in the Rue de la Huchette to two English girls.’
‘Of course.’
‘You know what happened to them?’
‘They left. Just before Paris was occupied by the Boche. They were good girls, they left the rent for me. I don’t know where they went. Maybe England.’
‘No, they joined a réseau near Orléans. I have been asked to try and find them. You see, they went missing from there soon after the invasion – after D-Day.’
Manceau gave a little nod, as though to say this was the most natural thing for them to do. Then he asked if they had been captured. ‘Are you looking for them alive, or just for the graves?’
‘We don’t know.’ Arnie put on a solemn face. It was what a Frenchman would expect. ‘What I need is some corroboration regarding their political situation.’
The pause was short, but Manceau locked eyes with Arnie so that the silence appeared to go on forever. ‘In those days many of us belonged to the Comintern.’ Manceau did not break the eye contact and Arnie thought he saw a worm of uncertainty move deep behind the brown irises of his eyes.
‘Yes.’ Arnold stepped in quickly. ‘I was a member, as were you, I believe.’
Manceau gave a hint of a nod. ‘Possibly,’ he said a little sharply. Then – ‘As for the girls, they were not fully committed as far as I know. How did you call them in your country? Journeying friends?’
‘Fellow travellers.’
‘Oui, fellow travelers. This was what they were. Of course after the Occupation – who knows?’
It was Arnold’s turn to nod. ‘Who knows?’ he repeated. ‘Perhaps a man called Jean Gardien? You know him?’
Manceau gave a short laugh. ‘I know his real name. Gardien was his nom de guerre.’
Arnold gave a pleasant smile. ‘Yes. The real name is Jean Faveron, correct?’
Manceau inclined his head. ‘Yes. Yes, Jean was a senior Comintern organiser. He could well have known.’
‘He still lives in St Germain?’ The trick question Dick Farthing had given to him.
The Frenchman cocked an eyebrow. ‘Faveron lives beyond our reach, Monsieur Fox. He died in the final days of the Occupation. In the cellars of the Avenue Foch.’ During the years of Nazi tyranny, Gestapo headquarters in Paris had been in the Avenue Foch. Arnold was immediately on his guard. Manceau’s reply had been too smooth. If he was to the far left, he would know the real truth about Jean Faveron.
Arnold frowned. ‘Then I must try in Orléans.’ Behind Manceau two barges passed sedately, heading downriver, low in the water.
‘I’ve told you all I can.’ Manceau held out his hand.
‘Yes. Yes, thank you.’ They shook hands and Arnie thought he could detect a little more sweat on the man’s palm. Stress? Or merely the warmth of the afternoon? They said their farewells, and as Arnold walked away he had a distinct sensation of nervousness, as though the Frenchman was still watching him. Out of the corner of his eye he saw two men, wearing corduroy trousers, rollneck sweaters, and heavy, military-style boots come out of an alley to his right.
He crossed the Seine again by the Pont Saint-Michel. When he reached the Rue de Rivoli – where he hoped to find his next contact – the men were still with him, holding back about fifty yards, but definitely there. He tried a few doubles, then ducked into the Métro at the Hôtel de Ville and out again just as quickly.
He reached the Rue de Rivoli fairly sure that he had lost the pair of watchers. They were not very good, and you do not wear heavy boots if carrying out a street surveillance.
The old apartment block he was looking for was almost opposite the intersection with the Rue St Martin. The area was replete with new construction work – noise clogged the ears and scaffolding reached across the sidewalks.
An aged concierge nodded to him, muttering to herself as he asked for M. Tiraque.
Tiraque had been especially recommended by Dick Farthing. ‘Not the most pleasant man in the world, but he knows a great deal about what went on among the various political factions. For an American he makes a ver
y good Frenchman.’ Dick had given him an amused, somewhat conspiratorial look.
Arnold asked why Dick had not gone to him. ‘It’s a long story and has about the same number of twists as a corkscrew. Basically I’m too old. He’s trouble, that one. But it would be embarrassing to risk my neck on him.’
‘Embarrassing, when the truth about your daughter’s at stake?’ Arnold suspected there was far more than age involved.
‘I’ve been looking for someone like you – I presume you have cover – to do the job for me.’
‘If he can throw light, couldn’t you have sent someone before?’
Dick had spread his hands in a great Gallic shrug. ‘Arnold, there’s a time and a season for all things. I know a great deal about Tiraque. More than I can even tell you. The time and the season are here. See him for me. Please. Ask directly about Caroline and see what his reaction is – and watch your back.’
Arnold had said he would see Tiraque if he could. If he had time. Now he found himself standing in the hall of an apartment that smelled of success and money. There was an undoubted Fragonard wash drawing on one wall, and a piece of sculpture Arnie could not place set on a gilded lacquer cabinet. He priced the lot at around half a million dollars.
‘The spoils of war.’ Tiraque was in his late sixties, Arnie guessed, and looked like a retired prizefighter who had taken lessons in style and grooming. Yet he still seemed out of place among the objets d’art in his hallway. ‘You said your name was…?’
‘Fox, sir. Adrian Fox. I have absolutely no authority, or right, to bother you.’ Arnold showed him a second piece of fabricated card, set behind clear plastic in a wallet. It claimed he was from the War Graves Commission.
‘You probably haven’t.’ Tiraque had a gruff accent which could have originated from the streets of Brooklyn, and made Arnold wonder why a voice like this had a name like Tiraque. ‘Come in anyway.’
He ushered Arnold into a large room at the rear of the apartment with windows looking out on a remarkable view over the rooftops, across the river to the Ile de la Cité. Notre-Dame seemed to rise up with its towers within touching distance – a trick of the eye, for it remained a long way off. Two great crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling, and the room was fabulously decorated and furnished – a Cézanne on one wall, a Seurat on another, while the third was was adorned with an incredible English carpet, a coat of arms in its centre – but Arnold’s attention was taken by the most beautiful thing of all: a young woman, who could not have yet reached thirty, sitting on a comfortable and very large settee. She had long blonde hair hanging almost to her waist, an elfin face which, while still young and beautiful, had a strength of character marked on it, as though some hard experience in her young life had left a print on her features.
‘Meet my wife, Mr Fox.’ Tiraque gestured. ‘Jacquie, darling, this is Mr Fox from the War Graves Commission.’
‘Good lord, what do they want with us?’ Her voice was low and seemed to smile. When she spoke the sun must have come out, for Marcel Tiraque, just as it did for Arnold. Jacquie Tiraque did not get up. Her skirt was arranged in a circle, completely surrounding her on the settee, so it would have been a hazard for this lovely girl to change the pose.
‘A wild-goose chase, I suspect.’ Arnold could not take his eyes from Jacquie Tiraque.
‘Sit down, Mr Fox. You’d like tea or something?’ Madame Tiraque’s long, slim arm reached out, as if toward a bell.
Arnold lifted both hands as though pushing at an invisible wall. ‘No. No, thank you very much. Your name came to us from an odd source…’
‘It would be odd.’ Tiraque chuckled at what seemed to be a private joke. ‘Please go on.’
‘Well, we’re trying to trace the burial places of a number of people connected with SOE and the Resistance. Some – many – have eluded us.’ Arnold realised that he was going to have to improvise. There was wealth in this room. Wealth and power. You could feel the power coming off Tiraque like heat from a stove. Make a wrong move – touch him – and you would get burned.
‘Well, I knew a lot of Resistance people – and some SOE also.’ Tiraque had an odd trick of seeming to be just a comfortable, friendly middle-aged man, yet danger hung around him like poison ivy among harmless flowers.
‘Jean Faveron? Also known as Jean Gardien?’ Arnold thought. Try that for size.
Tiraque had taken a silver case from his pocket and was in the act of removing a cigarette. It stayed, poised between thumb and forefinger for a fraction longer than it should have done. ‘Forgive me.’ Tiraque held the case toward Arnold, who refused. ‘Darling?’ he offered the case to his wife, who took a cigarette. Tiraque leaned over and lit it for her. Did Arnold imagine it or was the man’s hand shaking slightly?
Tiraque lit his own cigarette, inhaled deeply, and blew out a long stream of smoke. ‘Jean Faveron,’ he said calmly, ‘died in Gestapo headquarters here in Paris, one week after the Normandy landings.’
‘Yes, I know.’
‘Then you must also know that people who died there were usually dumped – God knows where.’
‘Yes, but some bodies have been identified.’
Tiraque’s manner had become cold. ‘Not Faveron’s body, though. I would have thought you knew his body was burned. Covered in gasoline and burned in the garden. Has nobody told you that? I thought every department of the military had dossiers high as the Eiffel Tower on Faveron. He was a much-respected, highly decorated hero.’
‘I didn’t know that. I’m sorry, you see I’m rather new to this.’
‘Why,’ Tiraque asked with increasing iciness, ‘should an American be interested in Faveron?’
In fact, Arnold Farthing knew very well why a thousand Americans should be interested. Faveron was a name given to him by Dick. ‘Test people with it,’ his uncle had told him. ‘Faveron was a Communist as far as the Resistance was concerned. In fact he worked with several of the OSS teams – and betrayed them. He was, in plain words, a double: a Nazi, put in to flush out the easy targets. There’re plenty of people still looking for him. A story was put out that he died under interrogation in the Avenue Foch, after which his body was burned. In fact, he’s almost certainly still alive.’
Back in the sumptuous room, with its beautiful furniture and crystal chandeliers, Arnold replied that he was not an American. ‘I’m Canadian,’ he lied. ‘Canadian and not long out of the Service. I needed a job, had some contacts, so I’m doing this until something better comes along.’
‘And who did you say gave you my name?’ Tiraque stood up – suddenly, somewhat threateningly. Arnold braced himself for anything to happen. He did not like this sense of tension which seemed to have come into the room with Faveron’s name.
In with both feet, he thought, then calmly answered, ‘A guy called Railton. Donald Railton.’ Dick had told him to use Naldo. ‘Don’t even mention me,’ he had cautioned.
He was side on to Jacquie Tiraque, but swore he detected a long sharp intake of breath.
‘You have the wrong people, friend.’ Tiraque stood over him. The man’s body seemed to say, ‘It’s time you left, buddy, and if you don’t go of your own accord, then you’ll end up with your nose sticking out the back of your neck.’
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t realise…’ He stood, making sure he was square on his feet, and well balanced, as he took a step toward the door. ‘Please forgive me, Madame Tiraque.’ His hands flapped wildly, gesturing a kind of apology.
‘It’s all right, Mr Fox. Nothing to worry about.’ She had remained calm in spite of the intake of breath.
As he got to the door, Arnold hesitated. ‘Might I mention one other name?’
‘Go ahead.’ Tiraque’s eyes had turned to glass. He seemed to be really saying, ‘Go ahead and see what happens to you.’
‘Caroline Farthing. She worked – ’ He stopped as Jacquie Tiraque’s jaw sagged, her face losing all colour, eyes staring.
‘I think we’ve had enough questions for one day, Mr
Fox. Time to go now.’
Tiraque, with his heavy pugilist’s build, did not lay a finger on him, yet Arnold felt he had been bodily propelled toward the door.
On the third turning of the stairs, the two men who had earlier followed him launched themselves from above and below, falling upon him like skilled assassins. As he rolled with the first punch, Arnold had a picture of Jacquie Tiraque firmly in his head, and he knew where he had seen her before.
*
The one who had been hiding on the stairs above threw the first punch. It caught Arnie on the right shoulder and he rode with it, his own arms coming up, hands flat and straightening, ready to chop, maim, or kill if necessary.
The hood attacking from below signalled his move too quickly, the right foot, shod in the studded military boot, swinging back to kick, aimed dead centre at the apex of Arnie’s thighs.
Arnold, who had trained with the best street fighters in the world, chopped at the man who had thrown the punch, turned, then jack-knifed his own right leg – high, so that his heel caught the kicking man in the chest. The blow took all the wind out of him – possibly breaking some ribs in the bargain – and, in his off-balance, uncompleted kicking stance, the attacker keeled over backward.
The stairs to the apartments were not carpeted – just hard stone with sharp, angled risers. The would-be kicker gave one great grunt and hit the stairs hard. Arnie thought he had broken the man’s back, and the idea did not worry him as he turned to deal with the second thug, moving in close, the cutting edges of his hands hard as steel, and chopping viciously at his target’s upper arms. After the sixth blow his opponent would feel only numbness in the arms. He felt nothing at all as Arnie chopped both hands, simultaneously, against each side of his neck in a terrible scissors blow. Silently he thanked those leathery little men who had trained him so well for the OSS. All the agony he had suffered at their hands was now being paid back in gold.
