Single to Paris

by Single to Paris (retail) (epub)

  ‘I’m sure you do more than that.’

  ‘It’s enough, in fact – quite exciting, now and then. Well, you can hear it, can’t you?’

  ‘Certainly can. And the other.’

  ‘I’ve had a few near squeaks. But also we’re making Molotov cocktails by the thousand. And would you believe it’ – he took another gulp of water – ‘several of the Boche light tanks have been knocked out? You take the Molotov, sneak up close enough and lob it into the hatch. Whoosh, it goes up in flames, and inside it they’re cremated, eh? So now what they’re doing, the Boches, they take a prisoner – Frenchman – and tie him to the tank’s hatch. You think twice then, you see.’

  ‘I’d say you might.’

  ‘Most would. Sometimes the Molotovs are dropped from windows. So Boche snipers watch the windows… Oh, I tell you – guess who’s running a hospital and stretcher-bearers?’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘Comédie Française. All the actors and actresses, the Sociétaires – their theatre is now a hospital – Théâtre-Français at the Palais Royal, you know? They have it defended, barricaded, and the actresses are nurses. In fact we’ve taken over all the hospitals – so if the young lady you’re setting out to rescue should need medical attention—’

  ‘I’ll remember that. Sure you won’t stay for lunch?’

  ‘Sure – yes. And’ – he got up – ‘must go. In fact I’m glad we were able to be on our own like this. No offence, but—’

  ‘Understood. Nico, one thing – my bike, at the Dog—’

  ‘Don’t worry – Adée had me bring it inside, it’s in her house now.’

  ‘But it was padlocked!’

  ‘Locks can be picked and chains cut. So happened the key was in your bag. Adée has it now, for when you want it.’

  ‘I was going to say, I doubt I’ll need it again, so you have it. If I did I might borrow it back from you – so don’t sell it right away, that’s all.’

  ‘Bikes fetch a lot of money, these days!’

  ‘Yours, anyway.’ She wasn’t trying to persuade him to stay for lunch, because she could understand his not wanting to fraternise with Clausen. ‘Come on, I’ll see you out.’

  * * *

  She took her gear into the spare bedroom and laid it all out on the bed. Someone – Adée, obviously – had washed and ironed a few things for her. She selected underclothes, skirt, blouse and a toffee-coloured cardigan. Shoes – no problem in selection, she’d brought only this one spare pair. But great to be shod again… The cardigan according to the label in it had been made in France, but in fact she’d bought it in Winchester two years ago on an outing from Beaulieu during the last part of her SOE training course, the part in which one visiting lecturer had been Derek Courtland – who early this morning she’d seen in rigor mortis and drained of blood, but only about three weeks ago had given her the little Beretta .32 automatic. They’d been meeting the Halifax from Tempsford that had flown Marilyn in: Courtland and the elderly résistant who’d organised the reception had had Sten guns, he’d lent her the Beretta and then suggested, ‘Well, hang on to it, if you like…’ She took it out of Léonie’s bag, removed the clip, thumbed the shells out of it, wiped them shiny-bright and then re-loaded them, pushed the clip back in and replaced the pistol in the bag. Mind still away in that forest clearing: seeing him as he’d been at that time, then contrastingly as she’d seen him ten hours ago. Imagining how it must have been for him, this past week or so. Lafont with his whip – very little doubt of that. And Jacqui in those same arms? She took the two spare clips which had been in the suitcase and put them in the bag too. Could be a battle, at Bazoches. Battle of Bazoches, might call it. Imagining herself proposing to Ben, in say the Gay Nineties or the New Yorker in a week or a fortnight’s time – however long it took him to get back from Norway – ‘Tell you about the Battle of Bazoches, shall I, my darling?’

  ‘Bazoches… Peninsula War, would that have been?’

  ‘Why, certainly. In which I played an heroic part, as you can imagine. Fighting for my Emperor, of course…’

  Ben, my super darling. Who will not under any circumstances ever be allowed within 50 miles of Mademoiselle Jacqueline Clermont.

  Apart from the enormity of the thing itself – cavorting sexually with that odious creature – to have taken such a risk, vis-à-vis her beloved Clausen! Because ‘Monsieur Henri’ was thought of as a catch amongst a certain type of Parisian enthusiastic amateur? One for the collection? Probably how he’d have seen his seduction of her: but it was still incredible. To look as sensational as she did, and be such a bloody fool!

  Not to mention slut.

  On the other hand she was right in what she’d said last – she had spoken up when she could have played safe and kept her mouth shut. Had courage, therefore. What else – ethical standards, principles? How then consort with any of those people?

  * * *

  They didn’t lunch until two in the afternoon and only then because Rosie, expecting Fernagut’s call at any minute, banged on the lovebirds’ door to wake them.

  Still no call, though. Twice she checked that the telephone was still alive. Surprising that it was, with the bullets flying. In mid-afternoon Clausen said he was surprised the fellow had agreed to go chasing out of town in any case, with all that going on. ‘That’ meaning the continuing – if anything, increasing – sounds of battle in the streets. Fernagut might have found himself trapped in it. Or, having arranged for police action at Bazoches, decided he needn’t hurry. What was more – Clausen warming to his theme – might have decided not to approach the farm in daylight. Dark by 9.30, say, and 70 kilometres to cover – with reasonable progress, say an hour and a half, maximum. Departure 8 pm, therefore – or 7.30 to allow for especially heavy traffic on the roads. A glance at Jacqui: ‘We could go back to bed.’

  She’d smiled, murmured something Rosie didn’t hear.

  At about 6 o’clock over mugs of coffee on the balcony – alcohol had been voted down – Clausen advanced another theory: that having alerted the gendarmerie at Provins, Fernagut might have decided he didn’t need to take any further part in it himself.

  ‘Not likely.’ Rosie pointed out, ‘He’ll want the kudos of personally arresting Lafont. It’s why I thought he’d agree to it in the first place. He made a point, by the way – Leblanc did, for him – that the prisoners will be his, nothing to do with you or the SD.’

  ‘Why should I want Lafont?’

  A moue from Jacqui. ‘I thought you were going to shoot him for me.’

  The ’phone rang soon after that, and Rosie went in to take it. A gruff voice demanded, ‘Jeanne-Marie Lefèvre?’

  ‘Captain Fernagut?’

  ‘Gabriel Fernagut, yes. We’ll be with you in thirty minutes. Will you be ready, please, in your vehicle?’

  ‘At the front of the house, inside the gates. Drive in, we’ll be there. Black Citroen.’

  ‘Of the Gestapo, huh?’

  ‘Actually the SD, but—’

  ‘Same thing. Thirty minutes, then.’

  He’d hung up. A man who called a spade a spade. Rosie told them – they’d come in from the balcony – ‘They’ll be here in half an hour, and he wants us to be downstairs in your car.’

  ‘As the other one said. Yes.’ Clausen shrugged. ‘Anyway, why not? Tell you the truth, I was thinking he might have been killed. Didn’t like to mention the possibility.’

  ‘Considerate of you.’

  She checked the time on her beautiful and doubtless extremely valuable gold Vacheron. No – Jacqui’s gold Vacheron. She’d wear it for the time being because it was inconvenient not to have a watch, but would greatly have preferred the old luminous job – Marilyn’s – which that bitch had stolen. This one – having what Jacqui had said were bad associations – might represent the fruits of some earlier sexual excursion. Farewell present from the colonel of engineers in Amiens, for instance?

  Chapter 24

  It was a Wehrmacht truck s
uch as she’d travelled in on more than one occasion as a prisoner. It came in quite fast – unsurprisingly, having taken a lot more than the half-hour Fernagut had promised – swerving around the nymphs and sending gravel flying as it braked, stopping where it blocked the Citroen’s exit. They’d painted FFI in white letters half a metre tall on this side, its driver’s door, no doubt on the other side too, and Clausen, hunched forward with his forearms resting across the wheel, was muttering angrily to himself in German. Watching the driver – uniformed gendarme – get out and first reach back in for a Schmeisser: its strap over his shoulder then, letting it hang with his right hand on it, stubby barrel pointing more or less this way. Evidence of the success of Fernagut’s raid on the Milice armoury on Tuesday night, she guessed. Just standing there, looking at Clausen and at Jacqui who was in front beside him – or at the car generally. Two others had meanwhile jumped down from the truck, while yet another was coming around the front from the passenger side. Fernagut, Rosie guessed; that was a sergeant-major’s strut, all right.

  He’d politely but very perfunctorily saluted Clausen, but now passed that wound-down front window, came to hers. Unsure, though: looking questioningly at Jacqui too. ‘Jeanne-Marie Lefèvre?’

  ‘Yes.’ She nodded. He was dressed as a sergeant – and was wearing a Vivre Libre ou Mourir armband. She added, ‘Thought you were a captain.’

  ‘Not yet, madame.’ Stiff-looking brown moustache, scar on the left cheek, hadn’t shaved today. Asking her, ‘The major of SD, is this?’

  ‘Yes. Major Clausen. And this is Mademoiselle Clermont. She’ll be helping me with the young lady we’re hoping to be in time to rescue.’

  ‘I share that hope.’ He’d moved to Clausen’s window now – getting a close look at him. Clausen was dressed as he had been last night and this morning – military greatcoat over civilian shirt and trousers. Fernagut asked him, ‘Are you ready to follow us in this vehicle, monsieur?’

  ‘Or you follow me. In that stolen vehicle.’

  ‘I should remind you that you and your compatriots stole France, four years ago. Since when the conduct of the SD in particular has not endeared you to us. In fact I would be happy either to shoot you or take you into custody. I understand however that you have been co-operating with Madame Lefèvre in this operation, on which basis a truce may be said to exist.’

  ‘I think Madame Lefèvre would like to get on with it.’

  ‘Do you accept that you are under my command?’

  ‘Well – at the farm—’

  ‘It’s a police operation – French police. You either accept my authority or we leave you here and I’ll have one of my men drive this thing.’

  A sigh, and a glance at his watch. ‘Very well.’

  ‘Are you armed?’

  ‘Yes. A pistol.’

  ‘You will not use it against anyone other than Bonny-Lafonts. Not even against them unnecessarily. I want them alive.’

  ‘Self-defence and the protection of these ladies, is all.’

  Now it was 7.20. Earliest likely time of arrival at Bazoches say 8.30. Rosie urged, ‘Please let’s go.’

  ‘One other thing – I’d like one of my men to travel with you. If you, mam’selle’ – Jacqui – ‘would mind moving to the rear—’

  Clausen asked, ‘What for?’

  ‘Getting through Paris we’ll be using roads which your forces are not patrolling. A car of this type is liable in present circumstances to be shot at. An attempt might be made to stop it. There are barricades – could be new ones we might run into. But with a gendarme in the front, and wearing this armband—’

  ‘To Bazoches only, then. I’ve no intention of becoming your prisoner. After Bazoches, no escort.’

  ‘As it happens, none would be available to you, we’ll be getting back as fast as possible. Mam’selle?’

  ‘All right.’ Jacqui got out and Rosie opened the rear right-hand door for her. Fernagut beckoning one of the other gendarmes: ‘You travel with them, Morice, rejoin us on arrival at Bazoches.’ He told Clausen, ‘Out of town by way of Vincennes.’ He pointed: ‘That fighting is in the south now. If they get into Paris this evening, as some expect, they’d probably enter by either Porte d’Orléans or Porte d’ltalie. I mention this for your guidance later.’ He’d stepped back. Morice – red-faced, grey at the temples – climbing in after Jacqui had transferred, raised an eyebrow at the insignia of rank on Clausen’s epaulettes. ‘Might discard the coat, Herr Major? If we are stopped at some barricade…’

  * * *

  Out, and left, downhill. Rosie guessed they’d cross the Seine by the Pont de Passy. After that they’d no doubt be dodging eastward on minor roads through arrondissements which she didn’t know at all, and re-crossing the river somewhere close to Vincennes. She asked the gendarme – Morice – ‘Seventy kilometres – how long will it take, d’you think?’

  ‘More than seventy, madame. Mapped distances out of Paris are given from Notre-Dame. We’re starting about six kilometres to the west of that, and our route won’t be anything like direct. Seven-thirty now, so – with favourable conditions and no hold-ups, say – eight forty-five, nine o’clock, but…’ spreading his hands above the machine-pistol on his lap – ‘Pouf, how can one be sure?’

  Nine o’clock, she guessed. Getting to be dusk by then. The sort of time when they might make a break for it. If they were planning to do so, not simply to separate, melt in all directions, all over France, no doubt with false identities all prearranged. Passing themselves off as résistants, maybe. While Lafont with his honorary German citizenship would surely head east. Sickening, to think that even one of them might get away – live on, masquerading as a human being.

  She said to Jacqui a minute or two later, ‘Isn’t it an astounding thought, that the Allies might be in Paris before nightfall?’

  ‘To me, profoundly so.’ Clausen, interrupting whatever Jacqui had begun to say. ‘It means I go in the bag. That’s now virtually a certainty. There’ll be no breakout that I could now take part in. Those who’ve gone have gone, those who are still here – from General von Choltitz downward—’

  ‘That’s nothing but the truth, I guess.’ Morice turned to look at him. ‘You’ll be either a prisoner or dead. Despite this you intend returning to Paris?’

  ‘Yes. I have to.’

  ‘Well. Viewing the matter dispassionately, monsieur, since as I heard just now you’ll have no escort with you, I ask myself would you not be tempted to drive into Alsace-Lorraine – to the Rhine, or to join your own forces still this side of it?’

  ‘I could do that, I suppose.’

  ‘D’you have enough gasoline in the tank?’

  ‘Just about. But – for one thing, there’s no certainty one would get through, and for another these young ladies have to be taken back to Paris. That’s part of the deal we made, it’s why I’m here.’ Easing the wheel over: close behind the truck, turning right towards the river. There was other traffic about, but not much. People would either be joining in the fun down-town, Rosie guessed, or staying indoors, clustering around illicitly held wireless sets. If it was generally known that Allied forces were so close, excitement would be intense. A gazo lorry with armed civilians all over it jammed its brakes on, coming out of a side-street on the right and stopping well out into this road; the truck and now the Citroen swerving out around it. One of those on top behind the lorry’s cab was waving a tricolor. They’d have seen the white letters, FFI – seen this gendarme too. He was giving them a wave. It probably had been a good idea to have him on board. At the bottom of this road, she thought, Quai de Passy – straight over it to the bridge. After that, heaven knew. She thought that Morice, who seemed intelligent enough, might have questioned Clausen about driving east because of his insistence to Fernagut that after Bazoches he’d be on his own again. She’d wondered about that herself: whether she wasn’t crazy to be trusting him. He was saying, in what sounded like a friendly, relaxed exchange with Morice, ‘I don’t suppose my
people are doing any more than defending the strongpoints. There are hardly enough of us left in Paris to do more. Even though we have a few tanks and greater fire power…’ He banged the wheel with the flat of one hand: ‘In any case one has to admit it’s over. Speaking of which, Jeanne-Marie—’ avoiding another gazo truck very much like that last one, reinforcements or new recruits being ferried into the centre, she guessed; she cut into whatever he was about to say with, ‘You said a week ago you thought it was as good as over.’

  ‘I know. But then we heard of two SS divisions being on their way to us – which surprised me. Probably surprised our general too, since he’d been ordered to destroy the city, burn it, lay it waste – and was ignoring that order … What I was going to ask you, Jeanne-Marie – in case we run into trouble and might be separated – if I was prematurely captured, for instance – tell me how at some much later stage I might communicate with Jacqui?’

  ‘Write to me – or to her in care of me – at SOE in London.’

  ‘Address?’

  ‘We’ve been your speciality for years, you know perfectly damn well—’

  ‘Baker Street, but I forget the number.’

  ‘No, you don’t. In any case I’m not telling you, you’ll have to work on it.’

  ‘Sixty-two to sixty-four, Baker Street. But that’s “F” Section, which I suppose would be closed down by then. Head office is – eighty-two?’ Nodding to himself. ‘Yes. Eighty-two. And what’s your real name?’

  She laughed. ‘I’ve forgotten. Had so many.’

  ‘Not real ones.’

  ‘I expect it’s in my file. But we’re looking a couple of years ahead, aren’t we?’

  ‘I’d say a year at least.’

  ‘By that time, you can take it I’ll be Mrs Ben Quarry.’

  ‘Say that again?’

  Jacqui said, ‘I’ll write it down for you. Scrap of paper somewhere.’ Searching… Murmuring, ‘Story of true love, is this?’