Single to Paris

by Single to Paris (retail) (epub)

  ‘Actually, could not. I had Ritter’s men pull the wires out in all three houses as soon as they got into them.’ Smug glance at her as he swung the car out of Lauriston into Rue Boissière. ‘So nobody – Brançion, in this last case – would be passing on any warnings that we’re after him.’

  Two or three kilometres to go, to Rue de Passy. The windscreen wipers were noisy; it was only drizzling now but there’d been a heavy shower while they’d been in number 93 and the roads were still awash. The telephone call Clausen was going to make as soon as they reached the flat would be to the Hotel Continental, to ask some SS colleague of his about the farm. If anyone knew where it was, Clausen thought, he would.

  Or could find out – if it was on record anywhere.

  ‘If he doesn’t, and it’s not – on your records, that is—’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Shifting gear. ‘And as for finding out – which I did say, I know – I’m afraid they’ve got rather a lot on their hands right now. So’ – shake of the head – ‘it’s not something we can count on.’

  ‘What about the countess Brançion mentioned?’

  ‘I asked him about her. Left Paris, he said, forwarding address Montauban, somewhere. Which of course—’

  ‘What about other women?’

  ‘They’d be collabs, all of them. In any case not exactly my field of study. Only one I could name off-hand is the film star Corinne Luchaire; her father Jean Luchaire is – has been – publisher of Nouveaux Temps. They’ll have taken flight with the rest of that crowd, you can be certain.’

  ‘Nazis, but you sound contemptuous of them.’

  ‘One respects one’s enemies, perhaps, makes use of sycophants. But – the farm – I don’t know.’ Slowing for the turn into Avenue Kleber. ‘Failing this one source—’

  ‘So let’s pray it comes up trumps. And then what? Might as well give thought to that – seeing as you weren’t able to hang on to Ritter. What about the SS you sent to arrest me – or the ones you sent to get me out?’

  ‘With that going on?’ The street-fighting, he meant: a gesture in that direction. ‘Not a chance. This is a crisis now, Jeanne-Marie, not just street-gangs showing off to each other!’

  ‘Gendarmes, then. Well – you know, that is an idea? If they saw a chance to arrest Lafont—’

  A staff car came fast from the left out of Rue de Longchamp, skidding round in a scream of tyres into this Avenue Kleber, in the skid taking the right-hand turn so wide that although Clausen had braked and swung over he’d avoided a high-speed collision by no more than a metre. Swearing quietly, in German: Rosie had jammed herself back in her seat, ready for the impact which hadn’t come. All one might have needed, at this stage… She glanced at him: he was keeping the speed down now anyway, with Place Trocadero just up ahead. She queried – making light of it – ‘Desperate to get into the battle, d’you think – or out of town?’

  ‘Perhaps he overslept. His last night in Paris. Finale of a liaison such as mine and Jacqui’s.’ Shake of the head: ‘I’m not asking for commiseration, but last night may have been my last in this city. Half a night, at best. I knew it and she knew it. How it feels is – really indescribable, you know?’

  ‘I know a lot about separation, if that’s what you mean.’

  ‘Separation of the kind that might turn out to be permanent?’

  ‘Always that possibility, isn’t there?’

  ‘But I was going to say, when that imbecile tried to ram us – you were talking about troops, gendarmes, so forth – even if one had a whole battalion, with no idea where to deploy them – uh?’ He’d slowed further, for the Trocadero – Place du Chaillot, formerly Palais du Trocadero, the architectural monstrosity for which Rosie’s father had had such contempt – and she had her window down, listening again to the small-arms fire, which was fairly constant: from the Rive Gauche especially, she thought. Not only rifles, machine-gun fire as well now. She wound her window half up as they turned right into Avenue Paul Doumer: drizzle blowing in, as well as that stench of burning.

  Worst of all, a growing sense of frustration. Clausen asking her, ‘Did that boy have far to go?’

  ‘Far enough. He knows every little back-street though, he’ll be all right. Please God he will. Was there some big fire when I was in that place?’

  ‘The Grand Palais, you must mean. We blew it up. Its basement housed the 8th Arrondissement gendarmerie, who’d ambushed a truck full of our soldiers and killed them all.’

  ‘Well, good for them!’

  ‘A somewhat provocative comment, Jeanne-Marie.’

  She nodded, ‘I’m serious, too. Maybe they would be keen to arrest Lafont. A real trophy for them. Could be our answer.’

  ‘Having of course struck lucky in the first place.’

  ‘Yes. I wish you had ’phoned from Rue Lauriston.’

  If he did get the location of the farm, she thought, the thing would be to get on to Leblanc, explain it all and get him to bring his gendarmerie friends in on it.

  Hell of a long shot, still. Even if Clausen was on the blower to l’Hôtel Continental in say ten minutes’ time, and got the answer straight off the bat; and if she, Rosie, was able to get through to Leblanc say ten minutes after that, and he could get straight on to the ex-soldier – Fernagut, who’d have to agree and be able to move immediately… More than enough ‘ifs’ and suppositions even if Leblanc, Fernagut and company were not currently engaged in street-fighting, as they might well be.

  Clausen had cleared his throat. ‘Jeanne-Marie, listen now.’ Quick change up, double-declutching, to pull out quickly around a gazo truck with a load of logs in it. ‘We have to face this – that if Lafont was all that secretive about his farm, it’s quite possible the man I’m telephoning won’t be able to help. Lafont’s every kind of swine but he’s efficient, and if he set out to keep it secret—’

  ‘We’re finished and so is Yvette. Give up, leave her to whatever they have in their swinish minds for her.’

  ‘Brutally – yes, if it turns out that way. And you see, we can’t – I can’t – see, we’re at a point of crisis, aren’t we? I’m keenly aware of your anxiety, that the girl’s life’s at stake, all that; so that talking now of my own primary concern – Jacqui – must be – well, may seem selfish, to put it mildly… But what can I do except beg you to stay with her now and take her with you when you move out? On the practical side of it – no, listen, please, this has to be discussed – there’s food in the apartment for – oh, a week or so. Tins, mostly. The Americans must be here within a week. Heaven’s sake, a day, perhaps. I imagine you’d communicate with your own people through them, somehow? Might be British forces sent in too? I don’t know – maybe they’ll be pushing on eastward to secure the ports. But also, if the American arrival’s delayed, you might get help from your Resistance friends? What I mean is that if there were any threat to her from the Resistance – FFI, whatever—’

  ‘In a nutshell, you’re thinking of leaving us.’

  Eyes back on the road. It was what was in his mind, obviously. Continuing now, ‘This is not an easy position to be in. In regard to Jacqui, I had anticipated getting her away – not with you, that bullshit of yours on Sunday didn’t wash at all. The dossier idea was worth working on, but not the Nantes business… What I’m trying to explain is I’d been counting on getting her away before all this blew up – as it now has, and I’ve left it too late. For the last three days I’ve been thinking of those two – Courtland and the girl – as her passport to safety. Your idea. Set that up, I thought, and OK, Jacqui and I can kiss goodbye – I won’t say happily, but at least I’ll know she’s safe.’

  Half a kilometre from here to the junction with Rue de Passy, Rosie guessed. Re-hearing his last words and thinking Jacqui safe but Yvette di Mellili very far from safe. In fact either dead or damn soon will be. Clausen adding – in a tone of desperation she hadn’t heard from him before – ‘It’s all come on so fast. Two days, as I say – not three, two – failing to c
ontact Lafont, to locate him or get any response to messages. Bonny I did manage to speak to, but he’s no damn use, only covering for Lafont. And last night that dreadful butchery, and – Courtland – and now the girl – and there goes Jacqui’s passport to safety!’

  ‘We might still find her. Yvette, I mean.’

  ‘But might very well not, and if I don’t – we don’t – would you – just walk out, when the time comes?’

  He was actually desperate, she realised. The tone of his voice: and now his driving, too. She could see the junction up ahead, and on the shine of wet road between here and there a few gazos and a horse and cart with what looked like a family’s household belongings on it; getting past that now but having to swerve in again to avoid a van that was turning out of a side-road which the lumbering cart had hidden from view in the last few seconds. Clausen had started to pull in behind the van, then seen he’d be stuck, accelerated and swept past it – with other oncoming traffic as well as the cyclists making this move extremely dangerous. But had got away with it, somehow: and far from having learnt any lesson from it was staying out in the middle, ready for the hairpin left turn that was coming. Rosie averting her eyes, saying – what she’d been thinking about, as well as the fact that he was driving like a drunk – ‘See what they say at the Continental. If they give you a lead to the farm—’

  Dragging the wheel over: around the hairpin and on to the down-gradient of Rue de Passy, where if there’d been anything coming up – but actually turning his head to look at her while in the middle of it – ‘Go on. You say if they do…’

  Luckily there’d been nothing coming. And with only forty or fifty metres to go, he was easing up. She said, ‘It’s a question I’m putting to you. Your side of the deal, if we still have one. If they tell you where the farm is, will you stay with me – and any other help we can get, those friends of mine for instance? I asked this before, I know, but – now, could I count on—’

  ‘In principle – and on the understanding that in return—’

  ‘Right.’

  Turning into the cul-de-sac with the tall gates at the end of it, and as usual one of them standing open. Through into the house’s grounds quite slowly, and then stopping. Still grasping the wheel, and staring at her: sweat on his brow, eyes anxious. Rosie looking away then, at the stone nymphs. They looked better shiny-wet from the rain than they had when dry. She confirmed to him – or began to – ‘If I have your promise on that—’

  ‘Yes. Because I can see how I’d fix my end of it, with my own superiors. You are actually promising you’ll stand by Jacqui even if the answer is no one’s ever heard of Lafont’s farm?’

  ‘I’ll look after her, yes.’

  ‘It’s still a deal, then. Thank you.’

  Moving on again slowly, to park at that front corner of the house.

  * * *

  Jacqui in a pale green sleeveless cotton dress looked as if she were going to faint.

  ‘What’s happened to you?’

  ‘Oh—’

  ‘Three nights and two days in a Gestapo cell did most of it,’ Clausen answered for her as he embraced Jacqui. ‘What she needs is a bath, food, brandy maybe, rest, more food—’

  ‘And a good answer from this man at l’Hôtel Continental.’

  ‘Yes. I’ll get on to them right away. Are the telephones still working, chérie?’

  ‘I don’t know. I haven’t—’ She’d put an arm round Rosie but pulled back, wrinkling her nose. ‘Christ! That thing’s for burning.’ Meaning the raincoat. ‘Just drop it here – please, don’t bring it inside. Jeanne-Marie – bare feet, and carrying—’

  ‘These aren’t mine, I’ll explain, but—’ She’d checked the coat’s pockets – they were empty, reminding her that Dubarque had taken her papers and given them to Clausen – and let it fall, there on the landing. Maybe one wasn’t going to need papers from here on anyway. Jacqui asked Clausen as she followed him and Rosie in then, ‘What was it, that shooting?’

  ‘A massacre by the Bonny-Lafonts of thirty-four résistants and one other. Gestapo had requested Bonny-Lafont to take them off their hands, Bonny-Lafont then decided to get rid of them any way they could. That was what we heard happening. But that extra one was my excuse to get Jeanne-Marie out of her cell for the purpose of identifying it. Him, I should say. Look, I’ll make this call now. I’ll explain, chérie, but for the moment – well, everything from here on hangs on it. Run a bath for her? Is the water hot?’

  ‘Warm, anyway. I’ve been keeping the stove stoked-up for you. But Jeanne-Marie, what on earth—’ Checking herself: maybe stuck for which of a dozen questions to ask first. Clausen had gone on through, presumably to their bedroom. Jacqui shrugging, giving up: ‘All right – first things first. The bath. It’s through here.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Of course, you were here. Sorry, I’m – gaga, slightly. Such relief, to have him back. And to see you, of course. But – food, now. To be quickest – cold roast pork?’

  ‘Lovely. Anything.’

  ‘Who arrested you – and why, what—’

  ‘Gerhardt did. He’d discovered I was not what I seemed. That’s to say I am not.’ She’d winked at her: water gushing in, and she was about to step into it, to wash at least some of the grime off her feet while it was running cold – and talking above that noise, partly for Clausen to hear Jacqui being informed of something she supposedly hadn’t known and which obviously must astonish her – if he could hear it, wasn’t already on the telephone… ‘He’ll tell you. You’d better be ready to be shocked.’ A whisper then: ‘You’re in the clear, don’t worry. I was going to approach you for SOE purposes in Rouen, but never got round to it, I thought you’d turn me in. I was waiting to know you better before I risked it.’

  ‘Whatever you are – or are not – I’ll tell you this’ – her voice rose – ‘your clothes are foul!’

  ‘There was urine all over the floor, and the mattress was – God, I can’t tell you. I’m longing to wash my hair… This is getting warm, by the way.’ She stepped out of the bath. ‘Some other clothes are coming, thank God, by—’

  ‘Well…’ Jacqui put the plug in. ‘I can rout out a few rags that mightn’t be too bad on you.’

  ‘—boy on a bicycle, bringing my things from Montmartre. But yes – great, thank you, he can’t take less than an hour or two. Maybe just slippers and a dressing-gown meanwhile?’

  ‘Hush – a moment…’

  Clausen’s voice out there: he was through to the Continental, by the sound of it. Rosie moved to the door, nearer to him and away from the sound of the running water.

  Talking bloody German, of course. She beckoned Jacqui, whispered, ‘Understand any of it?’

  ‘Very little. No, not when they talk fast.’ Voice up to normal again: ‘Now you watch this’ – the bath – ‘and I’ll make – sandwiches? Like – what, a brandy with them?’

  ‘Sandwiches, lovely – but if you had coffee—’

  ‘Easy. Two minutes…’

  Clausen was only putting in brief contributions, mainly Ja’s, and grunts. A lot more was being said at the other end than at this one, obviously. At least he was through to someone telling him something he thought worth listening to. Maybe this man did know about the farm, was giving him directions to it. Bath water meanwhile not hot, but warm enough to relax in it while stuffing down whatever food they gave her. Like contemplating paradise – except for anxiety over what was or was not coming over that telephone.

  Clausen was talking now. She heard – suddenly, unexpectedly – ‘Ja, Carl Boemelbourg…’

  The bath was about half-full; she turned off the tap. Sniffed at the cake of soap: lavender. A lot better than her present scent. She heard him ring off.

  Then: ‘Jacqui?’

  Prompt answer from the kitchen: ‘Just one moment!’ She was pretty good, Rosie thought. Really a minimum of questions, this far, and what had seemed like very quick understanding of the other business. She open
ed the bathroom door by a few inches, saw Clausen standing there looking undecided. Thinking she might have undressed, no doubt.

  ‘Do they know where it is?’

  ‘No. But he’s going to look into it and ring back. The rest of all that, he was telling me there are résistants occupying certain buildings, and on rooftops with sniper rifles, especially around the strongpoints – Stützpunkte. Our tanks are in the streets – light tanks, which is all we have here. And – ah, chérie—’

  ‘Coffee will be a while yet. Stove’s not at its best. Only wood, of course, no coal. I’ll give you some breakfast in a minute anyway. Was the call satisfactory? Jeanne-Marie – here we are, you can eat while you soak. Don’t lock the door, I’ll bring coffee when it’s ready. And later I’ll try to do something about your hair. I’ll bring you a fresh towel too. What else – oh, shampoo. Here…’

  ‘You’re twice the girl I thought you were, Jacqui.’

  ‘Aren’t I a marvel? The sandwiches I’ll put here, look. You can reach, eh? Plenty more when you want it. Otherwise—’

  ‘I’m glad I promised Gerhardt I’d take you to England with me.’

  ‘Oh, well…’ Double-take, then. ‘You promised him what?’

  ‘Ask him. Get him to tell you the whole story. Including why he had me locked up in that filthy hole. I’m about to cram my mouth full – ask him, d’you mind?’

  * * *

  He and Jacqui had stayed inside, breakfasting together. The breeze was cool and the balcony where they usually had their meals was wet with drizzle, sky still overcast, only a vague brightness where the sun should have been. When the ’phone rang Rosie heard him answer it immediately, before even the second ring. She got out of the bath then; she’d been in it for about half an hour, eaten every crumb of the sandwiches, of course, drunk all the coffee, felt like a new woman – or the old one, more or less resuscitated.