‘Yes. Marilyn was telling me.’
‘American and Free French troops mostly. Our contribution’s paratroops. Anyway – Ike doesn’t want to get bogged down in Paris. Street fighting’s a slow and costly business, and one of his biggest problems is fuel. Food too – his own armies’ rations, let alone feeding a population of that size. He needs every gallon of petrol he can get, and the answer to that problem is to take and occupy Le Havre and all ports north of it double-quick. Front line’s still being supported by supplies through the Normandy beachheads – we need Antwerp and Rotterdam a hell of a lot more than we need Paris. So – British 21st Army Group fighting its way via Rouen and taking in Le Havre, and the US 12th Army Group mainly to the south here – what they’re calling “the long right hook”. This lot from the south driving up the Rhone valley’ll link up with them somewhere around… oh, Dijon, thereabouts. Paris in the middle of all that, but for the time being having to be left to look after itself, since what really matters is to break through the Siegfried Line and to the Rhine and over it.’
Willoughby put in, ‘So the Germans in Paris will be surrounded anyway, left as it were to wither on the vine.’
‘But’ – Hyatt, back on his chair, pointing again at the map – ‘en route to the Rhine, the enemy’ll be trying to hold on in the region of Nancy-Metz-Saarbrücken-Strasbourg. In which area all Resistance and Maquis forces’ locations, organisation and arms dumps are known to Rouquet and his pianist.’
‘Yes.’ Rosie nodded. ‘Oh yes…’
She wondered again how those two had been trapped. In particular whether it had been anything to do with her. She hoped to God it hadn’t. Looking across at Hyatt: ‘Question I asked you in the car, if you remember—’
‘The source of our information?’
‘You said I’d be surprised.’
‘You may be, too. Yet another old connection coming home to roost. Remember Pierre Cazalet?’
‘Do I not! The perfume king – or queen.’
Marilyn put in, ‘I remember in your debriefing you told us he had Hermann Goering’s portrait in his drawing-room.’
‘He does have – did have – some very highly placed friends.’ Hyatt nodded. ‘Including one I mentioned in our conversation earlier – Carl Boemelbourg, head of Gestapo Counter-Espionage, who has the same deviant sexual tastes as Pierre Cazalet. Which has helped to make our Pierre fairly safe – and very, very useful to us.’
Willoughby agreed: ‘Oh, rather.’
‘Our man, Frank, not SOE’s.’
‘But we’ve used him.’
‘Only on our say-so. We directed Rosie to him, for instance, when she was doing that job for us. Doing it darned well, too. Anyway, Cazalet’s gone au vert. Gave us notice the day before yesterday that he’s ducking out – by then had ducked out, God knows where, and won’t be surfacing again until the tumult and the shouting dies. Can’t blame him, really – if the Boches don’t have it in for him, the Resistance surely will. Of course we can clear him, if or when it comes to any sort of trial, but meanwhile—’
‘Might get lynched.’
Rosie had said it. Having had similar thoughts about Jacqueline – a year ago, and resurrected now. Hyatt nodded. ‘Hundreds will be. Thousands. Not only in Paris, all over France.’
‘But he gave you the news of Rouquet and Léonie having been caught – only the day before yesterday?’
A nod. ‘Guess who he had it from?’
‘Boemelbourg?’
‘Go to the top of the class, Rosie. Boemelbourg in a farewell chat or get-together prior to departure for Berlin. Mentioned to him that they’d arrested this pair in Nancy and brought them to Paris, that the info they possessed was of potentially great value and he was leaving them in the hands of Gerhardt Clausen, a young officer whom he held in high esteem. I’d guess that such a full spillage might have come from Cazalet asking him something like, “But if you and most of your boys are pulling out, Carl, what the heck?”’
‘Clausen’s not one of them, is he?’
‘Far from it, surely.’
Rosie said drily, ‘Ask Jacqueline. How did Cazalet get this message to you?’
‘I’d better not tell you that … Oh, I suppose I can. A diplomatic channel. Totally reliable.’
‘Neutral?’
‘Of course. But now, where were we?’
Marilyn reminded him, ‘We’d accepted that if Rosie’s going to take this on at all, she’ll go in via Rouen.’
Chapter 3
Rue de Fontenelle: long, straight and narrow, with old timbered house-frontages. This was the river end of the street where it ran north from the Quai du Havre. She’d crossed the Seine by a footbridge rigged on floating pontoons, close to the damaged or anyway closed-to-traffic Pont Jeanne d’Arc; there was a checkpoint manned by Milice at each end, but she hadn’t been required to show her papers. The Milice were unspeakable: a force of paramilitaries set up by Laval as the Vichy security force in the then unoccupied south and which since then had spread all over. In many respects they were worse than their German counterparts: brutal, stupid, viciously anti-Semitic, and no matter what they got up to – murder, robbery, rape, protection rackets – the ordinary French police couldn’t touch them.
On Rive Droite she’d mounted her bike and ridden west along the quai. There were barges tied up all along the Pont Guillaume-le-Conquérant as if repair work might be in progress or contemplated.
Jacqueline’s salon was two blocks from the river, as she remembered it. Actually at this end of the third block – after crossing Rue St Jacques. Dismount before that, get a good look while passing, then turn and come back to it on that side. The place might be shut: depending on Jacqui’s routine now. When she’d been spending her weekends in Amiens she’d shut down here from Friday noon to Monday noon. This was Thursday of course; and midweek, if she was spending any time at all in Rouen, might be the most likely. On the other hand, if civilian-carrying trains between here and Paris weren’t running: although her boyfriend might provide road transport…
Didn’t want to find her here, in any case. Only wanted to know where to find her in Paris. And the time now – 4.45, closing time probably 6 o’clock. She could see the place now: remembered those blue-striped curtains and the gilt sign over the door. The windows above were those of Jacqui’s flat, which had its own street entrance up an alleyway at the side.
No way of telling whether the shop was shut or open. No lights showing – all right, probably wouldn’t be, there’d be a lamp or two, no more than that – and no bicycles tethered to the railing on that side. Again, wouldn’t be – unless they belonged to staff. Anyway, cross now – as if turning at the intersection with Rue Racine, but then head back towards the river – while unobtrusively checking on surroundings and movements. Why be taking this much trouble? The answer was – habit, when in the field. Training, experience, and an interest in remaining alive and free. One could have been recognised, followed – or for instance Ursule could be working for them now. You couldn’t be certain of anything or anyone at all. Remembering David’s – David Hyatt’s – last-minute advice: ‘Don’t get to thinking that because it looks like they’ll soon be booted out of France it’s all over bar the shouting. They’re still in place and will be for a while yet. Get caught and sent to Ravensbrück, Rosie – it’s the same old Ravensbrück – you get sent there to be killed.’ Another memory struck then: as she edged her bike over into the roadway, waiting then for a gazo to pass, as if intending to mount when it had done so but actually staying clear of a trio of SS troopers occupying the full width of pavement; remembering that she’d asked Guillaume Rouquet, ‘Do you loathe them as much as I do?’, and that he’d answered, ‘Only the way you’d loathe cobras if you were in a house infested by them. Once we’ve cleared ’em out I doubt I’d give much thought to it.’
He might have changed his mind on that by now, she thought; might be viewing them much less philosophically. But was there a hope in hell, tr
uly, of finding them – let alone getting them out?
Yes. Had to be. Bloody well had to be.
One of the SS had stared at her, was smirking back at her over his shoulder. The others then also looking round: laughing, clapping him on the back – the silly, barking laughter of brutish creatures lacking humour. Rosie seeing the start of it, then only sensing and bearing its continuance: having endured the same sort of thing often enough before. Waiting, watching other cyclists pass – and a pony and trap, two gazos – until the simple-minded oafs had gone out of sight and earshot. If they could only guess how utterly she detested them – or what she was here for – or that a year ago she’d killed one of their officers with a kitchen knife.
The Gestapo had it in her file, of course. Had photographs of her as well. If the file still existed… Frank Willoughby had mentioned during the re-briefing that in Paris in both Rue des Saussaies and Avenue Foch (numbers 82, 84 and 86, Sicherdienst headquarters) the Gestapo and SD had been burning files in their courtyards. That might be a blessing; although it was on the cards that they’d only been getting rid of paperwork from cases already closed, in which case files like her own might be retained. While in the same line of supposition, what might be the odds on rounding a corner and coming face to face with the Gestapo officer by name of Prinz – short, thick pig of a man, really quite Himmler-like – who after presiding over a series of extremely painful but ineffective preliminaries had stroked her bare breasts with one hand while advancing a pair of pliers towards her nipples with the other.
She’d know him, all right. Anywhere, any time. In fifty years’ time or as long as she lived she’d know him.
Leaning her bike against the railings outside Chez Jacqui, she looped the chain through and padlocked it. Brushing herself off then, conscious of her own scruffiness and aware that Jacqui’s customers tended to be well-heeled, well-dressed – therefore collaborators, or the wives of collabs…
Who’d have it coming, very soon. She pushed the glass door open and went in.
Jacqui had a male employee now. Slim, dark-haired, swarthy – Spanish-looking. He was stooped over one of the two customers who were being worked on. Three chairs, one unoccupied; odour of soap, scent, powder. No Jacqui. The other woman was being attended to by a girl in a light blue smock which matched the young man’s jacket. She might be the one called… oh, Estelle, who’d been Jacqui’s assistant here a year ago. It was her: very ordinary-looking, mousy-blonde, pudgy-faced, shapeless. Complete contrast to Jacqui, a contrast which had been heightened, Rosie remembered, by their having worn identical blue smocks – like the one Estelle wore now.
The customers were staring at her in their mirrors. Middle-aged, selfish faces showing resentment of this intrusion.
‘Help you, mam’selle?’
Foreigner: might be Spanish. Rosie looked at the girl: ‘I know you, don’t I? It’s some time since I was here, but – Estelle, isn’t it?’
‘How clever to remember. I likewise remember madame. I hope madame is well, and—’
‘An appointment?’
She looked at the man, frowning, left it a second or two before telling him, ‘It’s Mademoiselle Clermont I came to see. Is she not—’
‘In Paris, madame. She comes and goes, we don’t know until we see her. The trains now, you know, they’re—’
‘Has she opened a branch in Paris?’
The two women looked at each other as if that was funny. Rosie heard a murmur of, ‘One way of putting it.’ Estelle began, ‘No, madame, but she—’
‘Comes and goes.’ He’d cut Estelle short again. Telling Rosie, ‘In her absence, I am the manager. My name is Joao. If you would care to leave with me your name and where she might find you if she so wishes… Madame’ – addressing his customer – ‘I am sorry to neglect you.’ A glance at the clock and then at Rosie: ‘If you’d excuse us?’
‘Perhaps you’d give me an address or ’phone number in Paris?’
‘Not possible. I regret…’
‘Estelle – surely she’d have left an address with you?’
‘Unfortunately not, madame. I’m truly sorry, but—’
‘In Paris you might try the Hotel Meurice.’ Estelle’s customer had said it, watching her amusedly in the mirror. ‘Or the Raphael or Trianon. I’m sure someone in one of those—’
‘The Majestic or the Crillon, don’t forget them!’
That had come from her friend, and they were both sniggering. Rosie shrugged: ‘Don’t get it. Never mind. I’ll look in again, Estelle – but if you see or hear from her before that—’
‘Of course, madame. I’m sure she’ll be overjoyed…’
All five of those great hotels were among those taken over by the Germans as offices, messes and accommodation. The Meurice for instance, on Rue de Rivoli, was Staff Headquarters and residence of the new commander of Greater Paris, a General von Choltitz. Hyatt had told her yesterday, ‘He flattened Stalingrad and razed most of Sevastopol. Sevastopol was his big thing. More recently he’s had an army corps in Normandy. Very tough cookie, reputedly. One might deduce that the intention is to hold on to Paris at all costs – alternatively to destroy it – since the choice of that individual would have been made by Hitler personally, must reflect his intentions. Especially since after last month’s bomb plot he distrusts practically all his generals.’
What those women had been implying was that wherever Jacqui was, she’d be with Germans. And the secrecy over her whereabouts meant she didn’t want to be tracked down too easily. Understandable, considering that when the Boches pulled out or were driven out and the Resistance – FFI, Forces Françaises de l’Intérieur – came out into the open, known or identifiable collaborators would be in for a hard time – like being hanged or torn to pieces. As in the case of Pierre Cazalet, of course; and it was something Jacqui had been aware of a year ago, had been a factor in her agreeing to become an informant, establishing herself as an agent of British Intelligence, a claim which London would support.
Try the same line again. It was still entirely valid. In fact more so. Unlocking her bike, Rosie was thinking that on her own, away from the rather unpleasant Joao, Estelle might be more forthcoming. Knowing that she, Jeanne-Marie Lefèvre, was a friend of Jacqui’s. They must have some way of contacting her in an emergency. The bombing for instance: one stray bomb in Rue de Fontenelle would be enough to set the whole street ablaze: wouldn’t she want to know about it, have her moments of anxiety meanwhile? Anyway – 5 o’clock now – about an hour to wait. You’d get warning by seeing the customers leave first. There’d be cleaning and sweeping up to do then, and with luck those two wouldn’t leave together; it was a fair bet that Joao would be the first out, leaving most of the chores to Estelle.
* * *
Six-twenty. Both those women had left, clacking away on their articulated wooden shoes. Both wobbly, overweight, well dressed and able to afford Chez Jacqui prices, almost certainly therefore the wives of collabs. Rosie was on the south side of Rue St Jacques, in the doorway of a derelict stone-built house; she had a slantwise view across the intersection to the Chez Jacqui shopfront. When passers-by had seemed to be taking interest in her she’d made a show of checking the time – again – and looking anxious, pondering whether to go on waiting for the bastard or give him up, go home…
She was anxious. A lot depended on Estelle. All of it, in fact, the whole justification for coming via Rouen, and chances of achieving anything in Paris. By the time they’d finished even Frank Willoughby had come to see the sense of doing it this way: but it was still a gamble.
Movement over there, where for a few moments she had not been looking. She’d been studying the remains of a poster exhorting young Frenchmen to join the LVF – Legion des Volontaires Français. Most of it had been ripped off the curve of stone wall, but as much as was left was recognisable; one had seen them everywhere, earlier on… But that movement had been the opening of Chez Jacqui’s door – and emergence now of Joao. Standing th
ere looking up and down the road, then turning back to push the door open and shout some instruction to Estelle. He’d now shut it again and was walking quickly northward, hands in pockets and leaning slightly forward. Habitual posture maybe for a hairdresser. In any case it saved trouble that he was going that way: she’d been ready to push her bike across this street and up into Rue Vieux Palais. Moving now in any case: a stout man in a suit who’d passed twice in the last ten minutes, both times taking obviously predatory interest in her, must have turned back again and this time would probably have addressed her. Was following, in any case – same heavy steps, scrape of heels. So if she turned at the next crossing and started back, as she’d been intending—
Tell him – waiting for a friend. Be so good as to leave me alone, m’sieur…
Tarts didn’t push bikes around with them – did they?
Chez Jacqui’s door jerked open again. Estelle, in a black-and-white checked jacket – and a perfectly timed appearance. Rosie called, ‘Estelle!’ and started over. ‘Estelle – so glad to see you! That creature there following me…’
Creature had turned on its heel, was shambling back into Rue St Jacques. Estelle primly indignant: ‘I’d give him a good piece of my mind! Were you waiting for me, or—’
‘Sort of. Came back up this way in the hope – might strike lucky. Couldn’t talk freely in front of those others, could we? Especially Joao. What is he, a Spaniard?’
‘Portuguese. We don’t get on very well. Mademoiselle Jacqui found him in a salon in Paris where he was the star. She pays him very well, of course, but I don’t think he likes it here and he has a dreadful temper.’
‘Didn’t Jacqui think of letting you run the show?’
Single to Paris Page 3
