‘No – thank you.’
‘Mam’selle?’
Ritter – reminding her, waiting for her in the passageway leading to the front hall: saying again to Clausen – in French, out of politeness to her of course – ‘Excuse me, sir…’
‘I’m coming.’ Joining him in the front room to the left, coming from this direction. She’d still have liked to find a bathroom, but had no pressing need for it now except for purposes of cleaning up – which would have to wait. Some of the soldiers were coming down the stairs: stopping near the foot of them to let her go past and into that room – sitting-room, whatever it was. There was an oak table in the centre with kitchen-type chairs grouped around it; some old newspapers and a saucer of cigarette-stubs – nothing else, and no pictures on the walls. Ritter crossed over to the fireplace – stone chimney-piece, wide timber mantelshelf, remains of a candle in the bottom of a jam-jar. Ritter pointing with his torch-beam at a pair of shoes which seemed to have been put there as ornaments. Women’s shoes, but virtually a child’s size – imitation patent leather with blunt toes and wooden soles. Clearly a French wartime product – and just about as clearly, on account of their exceptionally small size, Léonie’s.
Trophy? Souvenir?
Clausen’s voice from the doorway, addressing Ritter in French: ‘The garden – shouldn’t you be seeing what they’re—’
‘Jawohl, Herr Major!’
Rosie was sitting, had hooked one of the hard chairs to her and subsided on to it. Ritter had pushed the shoes into her hands on his way out. She felt bad again. Looking at Clausen: ‘What was that about the garden?’
‘Looking for newly turned earth. Just in case. No more than a possibility… What have you got there?’
‘Her shoes. Léonie’s. They were there, on display.’
It did not mean they’d killed her. At any rate, didn’t prove they had. Did rather give that impression, though. They were, of course, quite literally beasts. Her hands were steady, she was surprised to note, she might have been all right even without sitting down. Except for the dizziness now and then. In fact shock, horror, became less shocking and/or horrific after a while, one came to take it in one’s stride. Only one’s sense of balance – and she supposed digestion – seemed to react, be affected. Digestive problem no doubt attributable to the Rue des Saussaies’ chef’s specials.
She got up: Clausen was beside her, looking at the shoes. ‘Why, I wonder.’
‘Bravado? Souvenir – then didn’t bother, or have room—’
‘Doesn’t mean – necessarily – what it might seem to mean.’
‘What about Rue Lauriston now?’ He’d nodded: she followed up with, ‘Are we on the same side still?’
‘If you mean will I continue to try to help you find—’
‘What I mean is can I count on it? Rue des Saussaies was – a surprise, you might say. To put it mildly. When you claim to be so desperate for my help, with Jacqui—’
‘It was necessary, that’s all-in the sight of others, and there being no alternative.’
‘Tell me this, then. Re those “others” – how can you get away with this, vis-à-vis your own people? Your Hotel Continental buddies, for instance?’
A shrug. ‘For one thing Rue Lauriston’s all that’s left, and it can’t take us long. If they’ve pulled out of there as well – God knows, but the way it’s going – down-town, snipers, and – actually, a lot of trouble, a lot of people are being killed, and’ – pointing with his head, south-westward – ‘the real thing about to hit us – within just hours, maybe. One might say there are no precedents – in my own case perhaps especially, since I’m—’
‘What about Ritter and his detachment now?’
‘He’ll need to get back to his unit. I’ll keep him as far as Lauriston – if he’s willing. About Jacqui though’ – nodding towards the shoes – ‘if this one is dead—’
‘Until it’s proved otherwise I’m assuming she’s still alive. So rather than waste more time, Rue Lauriston right away – get Ritter and let’s go?’
‘Another question is are you fit for any more?’
‘I need to be there when you find her. Yes.’
‘But then – no matter what – you’ll stay with Jacqui. There’ll be nowhere else to look, will there? If Lafont has left Paris, he’d most likely be making for Sigmaringen – in which case—’
‘Sigmaringen?’
‘In Germany – where they’ve all gone – Pétain, Laval, Darland, all the ultras who’ve run away. It’s a castle, huge place on the Danube south of Stuttgart. Couldn’t have taken her with him, wouldn’t have left her here either – not alive. You may have to face this, Jeanne-Marie: she probably saw him murdering Courtland, and’ – a shrug – ‘with retribution perhaps not so distant—’
‘Lauriston, then – let’s go?’
They might still be there. ‘They’ meaning Lafont and including Léonie too – whether he’d be taking her or not, or leaving her – dead, presumably… Clausen had nodded, turned away. ‘Meet me at the car. I’ll see what Ritter’s—’
‘Herr Major!’
The man himself. Rosie thinking sickly, envisaging recently turned earth, They’ve found her… A stream of German, which Clausen cut short and then told her. ‘Nothing in the garden, far as can be seen – in this light, mind you – but they’ve arrested some kid who was nosing around. Go to the car, will you?’
Having tortured Derek Courtland to death, would they have left Léonie alive? Was there a hope in hell they would have?
She didn’t think so. Didn’t think Clausen could believe there was, either.
Outside, the ‘kid who was nosing around’ had one of Ritter’s men on each side of him, holding his arms. Clausen’s torch shining in his face now, and Rosie – on her way to the car, hoping to God this wasn’t going to delay them any more than they’d been delayed already, happening to glance that way.
‘Nico!’
A gasp: ‘Jeanne-Marie?’
‘You know this boy?’
‘Friend of mine. He was helping me to try to find them. Please, let him go!’
A gesture and a word: Nico then rubbing his arms, from where they’d gripped him. Clausen asked him, ‘What are you here for?’
‘We thought they might have her friends here.’ Pausing, then asking Rosie, ‘Tell him, shall I?’
‘Yes, Nico, but be quick. They’re trying to help find them too.’
‘We – this lady’s friends – were going to attack this place, try to rescue them. I was on lookout – over there – old gent’s house. But this truck came – before my friends would’ve smashed in—’
‘What time was that?’
‘Oh – twelve-thirty—’
‘Résistants, you’re talking about?’
Looking at Rosie. She said, ‘Just people who were helping me. Go on, Nico.’
‘We know about the truck. Go on from there.’
‘I told them over the ’phone, hang on, not to attack. There were some of them left here – standing around with guns, Schmeissers. I kept watching, heard shooting from that way, the Bois – and later the truck comes back. All of them singing – fascist songs about killing Jews and that.’
‘How long ago was this?’
‘About two hours. Then the ones they’d left here got in – with baggage, bundles—’
‘No prisoner?’
‘None I saw. I don’t think—’
‘After they’d gone again, did you go in and look around?’
‘Yeah. Side door – that side—’
‘True.’ Ritter said in French, ‘It was not locked – we found after we’d broken in at the back—’
‘All right.’ Clausen asked Nico, ‘What did you find?’
‘Nothing. Oh – pair of shoes, on a mantelpiece—’
‘These.’ Rosie showed them to him. ‘They belonged to the young lady I’m looking for. The man who was with her is dead – Lafont murdered him – and she may be, too. Nico
, this is Major Clausen of the SD, and – as I said – strange as it is, he’s helping me. Martin Leblanc knows some of the background, so does Adée. You can tell them what I’ve said.’ She asked Clausen, ‘He can go, can he?’
A shrug. ‘I’ve no reason to hold him.’
‘Nico – we’re going now to 93 Rue Lauriston. They may have her there, or they may have deserted that place too. From there, I’ll be going to a house called Le Clos de Fretay – at the end of a cul-de-sac off Rue de Passy, north side, just a short way down from its intersection with Avenue Paul Doumer. An apartment on the top floor. Got that?’
‘Yes, but what—’
‘My things – suitcase and the bag. You’ll need a few hours’ sleep, I know, but when you can – if you possibly can—’
‘No problem. Mind you, it’s begun now – barricades, snipers – M’sieur Leblanc said on the telephone—’
‘Think you can make it?’
‘On the bike – detouring, like—’
‘So grateful, Nico. Tell Martin all this, will you?’
‘As well as I can.’ He’d glanced down at her bare feet: trying not to show surprise. At Clausen then – and Ritter, and the soldiers who’d caught him. You could see him struggling with it: that these were on her side – although she looked as awful as if she’d been through God alone knew what – and were letting him go… Telling her quietly, as if he and she were alone here, ‘We all thought you might be dead. Can you – trust these?’
‘Oh, yes. At least – this far—’
‘Adée’ll be over the moon. M’sieur Leblanc too. Well, my bike’s over there…’
* * *
Getting towards full daylight, in Rue Lauriston. Rosie in the Citroen with her window wound right down, watching as Clausen with two of Ritter’s men as back-up first tried the front door and then hammered on it. Others had distributed themselves along the front, and Ritter had taken some of them through the gateway into the central garden. He’d shot the padlock off that gate; and she’d thought there might be a battle starting, then seen him kick it open and dash in with the rest following. Front door open too now: Clausen pushing in, pushing whoever had opened it in ahead of him, Ritter’s men crowding in as well.
Might as well move too. He’d said to stay in the car, and for some reason this time she had. Thinking utterly depressing thoughts, and not expecting to find Léonie here or anywhere else alive. Might be somewhere in this place dead, or might not have been here at all. In which case – as Clausen had said, where else? Except in a hole in the Rue de la Pompe garden, or this one. Disposal of dead bodies shouldn’t present the Lafont gang with any problems – unless they were really seriously on the run, lacking time and maybe now facilities? She got out, pushed the car door shut, went in across the forecourt looking up at the house’s tall, grey façade. Windows uncurtained – or with curtains already drawn back to admit the early light. By whom? Well – someone had opened this door to Clausen; Ritter entering by way of the central garden must still have been outside at that stage.
He and his men were in there now, all right. Boots clumping around, voices calling in German to each other. And here – in the hallway, Clausen talking to a pale, balding, middle-aged male in a dark suit and high wing collar. He was visibly trembling: turning to look at her now – and a double-take, as Clausen glanced round and snapped, ‘I said to wait in the car!’
‘I quite often don’t do what I’m told.’
Even when physically and mentally impaired: due very largely to him. They were searching the house, clattering from room to room, doors being wrenched open, slammed or flung back; Ritter on the first-floor landing, giving orders and acknowledging reports. The man in the suit had noticed her bare feet, was fairly goggling at her. Not just for that, of course, more that she’d look to him like an assassin, tramp, alley-cat… Asking Clausen, ‘What’s going on?’
‘Place is empty except for this – butler. Brançion, you said your name—’
‘Yes, mein Herr.’ French – and obsequious – mumbling flabby-lipped to Clausen that Monsieur Lafont had taken his departure soon after dark, Madame la Comtesse yesterday in the morning.
‘Who else with Lafont?’
‘Oh – his nephew – M’sieur Clavié, that is – and M’sieur Engel—’
Rosie broke in: ‘A prisoner with them?’
Mouth slightly agape, as if he’d never heard of prisoners. She could imagine him here in this wide, light hall with its duck-egg-blue paintwork, chandeliers glowing as he admitted – and took the caps, capes and hats of – Nazi high-ups and French traitors, bowing and scraping to them. Decent people in chains in other parts of the house; and in the cellars, God only knew what. In the cellars. God shuddering – and this Brançion knowing exactly what was going on. She raised her voice: ‘Asked you a question, Brançion!’
‘I’m sorry, mam’selle – no, not that I—’
‘One in particular. Female – young – smaller than I am?’ Quiver of denial: looking at Clausen as if for help while having difficulty framing his own words. Clausen asked him, ‘Are you saying there were never any prisoners here?’
‘Not in recent months, sir.’ The beginnings of a head-shake, but then a pause. Face gleaming with sweat, eyes watery, blinking rapidly. ‘Oh. In the house next to this one, sir, number ninety-one. There, I believe—’
‘Are now, or there were?’
‘A girl?’ Rosie, shouting: ‘Young lady, as I described?’
‘It’s a – possible, mam’selle, mein Herr – but—’
‘Come on, you smarmy bastard!’
‘Sir – mein Herr—’
‘Not worth keeping, is he?’
‘No. You’re right.’ Clausen had the Luger in his hand. ‘You’re no use to us, Brançion.’ He took a pace backwards as he cocked the gun. Ritter meanwhile on his way down, reporting that every room had been checked, there was a lot of stuff lying around, some of it valuable, and the fourth-floor rooms seemed to have been in use as ordinary bedrooms – beds with sheets and blankets still on them.
‘All right, lieutenant. Take some of your men now to the house next door – that side – and search it. I’ll join you there in a minute.’ To Brançion: ‘D’you have a key to that house?’
‘Oh, yes.’ Panting, running with sweat. ‘Shall I—’
‘Get it, give it to that officer.’
‘Of course, of course!’
‘Wait. Where are the other servants?’
‘Oh – discharged, sir. Yesterday – M’sieur Bonny instructed me to pay them their wages, and—’
‘Get that key. Yes, lieutenant?’
Ritter told him, ‘The cellar, Herr Major – there’s nothing in it except smashed bottles. Not one left intact, only heaps of broken glass, whole place swimming in wine, just taking a breath could make you drunk!’
‘Half mad…’
‘Didn’t want anyone else to enjoy it, I suppose!’
Brançion was back with the key, gave it to Ritter, turned to Clausen then. ‘Having had a moment to think about it, sir, I believe there was a female prisoner next door. I’d forgotten, it’s been – turmoil, these few days. In any case I had nothing to do with ninety-one – or any prisoner ever – God’s truth, sir, I swear it. In this case I only happened to overhear some reference, and—’
‘Did they take her with them?’
‘I think – they must have, mam’selle, but—’
‘You’d have helped carry out the baggage, you’d have known!’
‘Not from the other house, you see. If I might explain… There were several other associates of M’sieur Lafont’s – in number 91, with the prisoner. Also of course M’sieur Bonny – but he always stayed in this house.’
‘Where were they going?’
Clausen had asked simultaneously, ‘In what vehicles?’ Brançion evidently preferred this question to Rosie’s, told him, ‘Two Citroen motorcars and one Renault van, sir.’ His glance flickered towards Rosie, from her th
en to the Luger in Clausen’s fist. He was scared of it but more scared still, she thought, of her. She cut in again: ‘Brançion – the major will agree, this is the last chance you get. Where have they gone?’
It was the only thing that mattered. If this sod had been telling the truth, not just trying to buy his life. Eyes on Clausen now: Clausen raising the pistol again, slowly. Brançion stammered, ‘I can answer that, sir, but in no way that would help you. They’ve gone to the farm – M’sieur Lafont’s. None of us were allowed to know where it is. He’d take Madame la Comtesse, or – a weekend, or—’
‘Which direction out of Paris – and how far?’
‘If I knew—’
‘In travelling time, how far?’
‘It was never possible to know, mein Herr. I swear it! This is the truth, Mam’selle – I’d tell you if I could, I swear—’
Chapter 21
The search of number 91 had been swift and perhaps somewhat perfunctory, after Brançion’s statement about Lafont having taken a female prisoner with him. Hadn’t bothered looking for recent digging in the garden either. Main reason being that if one accepted Brançion’s statement, the farm became the focal point of interest now.
Maybe should not have taken the bastard’s word for it, she thought. He might have dreamed that up simply to get rid of us. According to Ritter there’d been a lot of valuable-looking silver in the first-floor dining-room, for instance, and that might have been Brançion’s reason for having stuck around after Lafont had taken off. Waiting for daylight, to start sorting and packing.
Why the curtains had been opened so early, as she’d noticed. Needing daylight to work by. It was light now, anyway, despite the overcast and drizzle. Warm, muggily humid, after at least seven days of baking sunshine. The thunder of artillery in the south-west was louder than it had been, and pretty well continuous. Sporadic rifle-fire from down-town too. She was mentally crossing her fingers for Nico on his bike in the middle of all that.
She said to Clausen, in his car, about a telephone call he was going to make – best hope, he thought, of getting the location of Lafont’s farm – ‘Could have done it from the house, if we’d thought of it.’
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