Single to Paris

by Single to Paris (retail) (epub)

  They were approaching the gateway in the wall, Rosie pointing: ‘Through there, then it’s only a few yards. One thing I must explain. The man driving this car – it’s his car – is Jacqui’s boyfriend and he’s a major in the SD, but—’

  ‘SD…’

  ‘—he’s on our side in this, oddly enough. Jacqui’s been tied up with him for ages, he knows the Resistance would give her short shrift if she was left here on her own now – Allies may already be in Paris, by the way, they were tipped to arrive this evening – anyway, they’d as like as not do her in, so he’s been helping me find you in return for my promise to take her to London with us. She was working for SOE, you see, and she’s entitled, but he doesn’t know that, better not know – OK?’

  Movement of split and flattened lips: ‘OK.’

  There was a crowd in the farmyard between the parked vehicles and the near end of the house. By torchlight surrounding them she saw half a dozen men in handcuffs and leg-irons, guarded by gendarmes with Schmeissers. That tall one would be Lafont: she wondered whether Jacqui might have spotted him. The van’s doors were open and the other one, which had been moved to block the exit, was growling its way back into the yard at this moment. One of the gendarmes who’d been in the cottage when she’d killed Bernin had trotted over to that large group, reporting to Fernagut she guessed – or maybe to his own patron from Provins. One didn’t know who was who, exactly. There was a smaller, separate group, she saw – three or four women who were also handcuffed – and some children.

  Jacqui came running. Clausen was out of the car too, but waiting for them beside it. Léonie asked Rosie, ‘How did you know they’d brought me here?’

  ‘Well – I wouldn’t have gone into this if you hadn’t asked, but the starting-point was – Guillaume.’

  ‘Lafont whipped him to death. In front of me. Took days.’

  ‘I guessed, something like that. I saw the chair and the hook in that cellar.’

  ‘Why Bernin thought of cutting my eyelids off. To make me watch.’

  ‘Is this – Yvette?’

  ‘Yes, Jacqui. Don’t touch her, she’s bruised all over. Yvette – Jacqui.’

  ‘Hello, Jacqui. We’re going to your apartment and you’ll fix me up with some clothes, Rosie says.’

  ‘Why, of course—’

  ‘Jeanne-Marie?’

  Fernagut. Rosie called back, ‘With you in a moment.’ Then to Léonie/Yvette, ‘We’ll get you into the car – sandwiches and a Thermos of coffee – real coffee, if—’

  ‘Brandy too.’ Jacqui asked Rosie, ‘Said anything about Gerhardt?’

  ‘Yes, I’ve explained.’ She added to Léonie: ‘Gerhardt is Major Clausen. Better call him Gerhardt – easier—’

  ‘I feel like Alice in Wonderland, but—’

  ‘Some wonderland.’ Jacqui said, ‘Listen, soon as we get to the flat, I’ll send for a doctor. And if he says hospital—’

  ‘London’s the place for her, Jacqui. Hospital there, if necessary. Unless the doctor’s adamant she mustn’t travel. Her mother’s in London, and – anyway, Paris hospitals are going to be packed out.’

  ‘Definitely London, please.’

  ‘Mam’selle Yvette?’

  ‘Yes – Gerhardt. They say you helped find me, I’m – grateful.’

  ‘Charming that you should say so. Now if we use this door – Jacqui, you might get in the other side, help her in from inside, d’you think?’

  ‘All right, Léonie?’

  ‘If they don’t pull me, or—’

  ‘She’s badly hurt, Gerhardt. All-over bruising, especially. Best not to touch her, let her crawl in, give her help if she asks for but – see, I’m not holding her—’

  ‘Understood.’

  ‘I want a word with Fernagut. Won’t be two minutes. Yvette would like sandwiches, coffee and Cognac – she’ll tell you in which order.’

  Fernagut was telling another gendarme, ‘You take them then, but they remain my prisoners, I’ll arrange to collect them when things have settled down. Keep ’em locked up and incommunicado – and no chances, they’re wild beasts, uh?’

  ‘All right. The men in my van, and the women and children in yours, Justin. And Justin – have your lads dig a couple of holes for those two before you start off, would you?’

  ‘Maybe one hole? In that cabbage patch – for easy digging. Hey, Philippe—’

  ‘Another thing.’ Fernagut again. ‘The two Citroens in that shed, and the small van inside there. D’you have men to drive them?’

  ‘Oh, sure!’

  ‘Take all three then, but one Citroen is mine. The best of them – because you get the van as well. Fair do’s? Look after it for me and I’ll take delivery when we collect the prisoners.’

  ‘As you say, Gabriel – fair do’s.’

  Fernagut turned to Rosie. ‘Forget about the man you had to shoot. There was also one against whom I was obliged to defend myself. I’m very glad you have the young lady safe.’

  ‘You won’t need her evidence, will you? I hope to get her to London within a day or two – she’s been through enough without—’

  ‘Don’t worry. We’ve enough evidence to hang every one of them fifty times over.’

  ‘You’re leaving them here for the time being?’

  ‘They’ll hold them in Provins until we’re ready. With Allied troops maybe in Paris already – God knows, it’ll be chaotic these next few days. I need to get my lot back there right away, in fact. Could set off together, if you like?’

  ‘Best you go ahead. We have food and drink for her – can’t rush her, she’s amazingly well in control but—’

  ‘Very well. May I say, the capture of those creatures I owe entirely to you—’

  ‘You did it, mon Capitain. Congratulations.’

  ‘There now.’ He’d put a hand on her elbow, turning her, pointing. ‘That’s Lafont, the one embarking. And that small, stocky one – Pierre Bonny. To our shame, once a very senior policeman. That dwarf-like object now – Lafont’s nephew, Paul Clavié. And that’s Engel – exceptionally vicious. He and Clavié will face multiple rape charges, as well as murders. And Montand – Chauvier – well, they’re small-fry, you might say…’

  * * *

  One police van and the other vehicles, the Citroens and the Renault, were leaving, while in the back of Clausen’s car, between Rosie and Jacqui, Yvette munched sandwiches. She’d started with a swig of Clausen’s brandy, and he’d offered her his greatcoat as a rug to cover her, but she hadn’t been able to stand its weight.

  Rosie muttered, ‘Those bastards! That one in particular.’

  ‘Yvette says you killed him.’

  ‘Instinct to do it there and then. She doesn’t have to think of him still walking around, she knows he’s wiped out.’

  ‘You think of all that at the time?’

  ‘No. Just wanted him dead.’

  ‘Probably a good idea, at that.’ Jacqui asked Yvette, ‘More coffee now?’

  ‘Oh – if there’s more to spare—’

  ‘It’s for you.’ Rosie asked Jacqui, ‘What’s for midnight supper when we get back?’

  ‘What’s left of the chicken casserole – and there’s cheese – and Gerhardt’s wine of course. I’m sure he’ll insist—’

  ‘You see, we’ve been living in luxury, Yvette.’ Remembering her as she had been in Nancy, as Guillaume Rouquet’s pianist: neat, efficient, self-possessed, coping with all the pianist’s round-the-clock dangers which Rosie herself had known all about; and sympathetic and helpful with Rosie’s own then rather special problems – such as having her portrait on the Nazis’ ‘Wanted’ posters, for instance. Now Jacqui had poured a mug of coffee: Yvette didn’t want saccharine substitute in it. Asking Rosie, ‘How come you were in Paris looking for us in the first place?’

  ‘I’ll tell you that as we go along. But look here. Your bag – you gave it to me when I was setting off with Guillaume, remember?’

  ‘Yes, I do—’
<
br />   ‘How about this, then? Hey presto – shoes!’

  ‘How on earth—’

  Clausen said, ‘Truck’s pulling out.’ Fernagut and company. Leaving only the van with the gang’s women and children in it still standing there, its rear doors shut and gendarmes with Schmeissers guarding it while their colleagues finished digging a grave for two in the cabbage patch beside the lane. With her head near the open window Rosie could hear that digging going on. Yvette asking her – again – ‘Where did you find my shoes?’

  ‘House in Rue de la Pompe.’ She didn’t mention that they’d had them on a mantelpiece as ornaments; it was a fairly creepy notion and neither necessary nor probably desirable to tell her everything. Not at this stage anyway. She hadn’t mentioned the dumping of Guillaume’s body either. Clausen was craning round again: ‘Coffee finished? Ready to go, are we?’

  * * *

  There’d been lightning-like flashes in the night sky over Paris, but none for some time now. Rosie had been telling Yvette about her surprise re-briefing at Fawley Court and the news of her and Guillaume’s capture having emanated from Boemelbourg via a fellow-pederast who for years had been a wheeler-dealer for SOE. She hadn’t mentioned the man’s name – Cazalet – because she didn’t think Clausen knew about him, and the game wasn’t necessarily quite over yet. She finished, ‘It was a long-shot chance but a chance of sorts, so they packed me off.’

  ‘You mean you offered. Thanks.’ A hand on hers. ‘Many heartfelt thanks.’

  She’d have liked to do justice all round by attributing to Jacqui the pinpointing of the farm, but felt sure Jacqui would prefer it if she didn’t.

  Clausen was driving fast, and there was very little traffic. They’d passed a place called Rozay-en-Brie, which Jacqui – who had the map and had reclaimed the torch – said was 26 kilometres from Bazoches. Therefore 44 to Paris: say 50 or so to Passy. It was open country on both sides here. Yvette asked, ‘Apart from going to your flat, what’s our programme in Paris as you’d see it?’

  Clausen said, ‘I leave the three of you at the apartment, put on a uniform and report to my headquarters in l’Hôtel Continental. At least, endeavour to. If the Americans are in Paris it’s more likely I’ll be made a prisoner-of-war. Meanwhile Jeanne-Marie – or Rosie as you call her – will telephone to a Resistance leader with whom she’s been doing business, and he’ll no doubt make whatever arrangements she requests.’

  ‘First of all, though’ – Jacqui – ‘I’ll send for a doctor to come and see you, Yvette.’

  ‘But then to get to England—’

  ‘The man I’ll telephone, name of Leblanc, will fix it: contact some headquarters unit – Yank, maybe – and they’ll get on to the British command, who’ll buzz SOE in Baker Street, who’ll have us flown out – from Le Bourget, I—’

  ‘Hold tight!’

  Braking. There’d been some kind of explosion – just seconds ago. A bend ahead of them here, fairly sharp, woodland to the right, and… smash-up? Combination of the bend and trees on that side meant one had come on it suddenly: none of the women had been looking out ahead and – shockingly – here it was, up close – a vehicle on its side in flames, and men running – one crawling – black against the brilliance, which now exploded again – a sheet of flame leaping outward – blast driving this way – flame higher than the trees, burning pieces flying… Clausen had stopped the car in a juddering skid that had left it slewed diagonally across the road – Rosie with her arms loosely but protectively round Yvette – whether she’d have wanted it or not, might have been worse off without it. ‘All right, Yvette?’

  Clausen said, ‘That’s the truck. Your gendarmes.’

  Had been. Was burning wreckage now, a central heap of it, and around that a general scattering. Also grass burning on the verges. Running men had vanished – they’d be part of that litter, she imagined. Reek of petrol. Clausen said, with the driver’s door open – half out of it, shrugging into his greatcoat – ‘Tanks. See? That was a shell from the one to the left, I think. There’s a staff car back there and I imagine they’re escorting it. I’m going to see who and what—’

  ‘Gerhardt, why—’

  ‘Because naturally I have to. Calm yourself, chérie.’

  One tank – one on the left – was coming on slowly, smoke still drifting from its gun, on the wider verge and around the spill of still smouldering, smoking wreckage. The other was stopped on this other side, further back. Clausen was out in the road, had not only his coat on but also a cap which he’d scooped out from under the front seat: was clearly a major in the Sicherheitsdienst again. He’d pushed the door shut and moved around the front of the Citroen, was starting up the road slanting left to skirt around the nucleus of the wreckage – would also be passing close to that tank, which had now stopped with its gun pointing this way, Rosie noted. The other tank had its gun trained this way too – she thought. Harder to see because of the smoking debris between here and there. She’d thought of climbing over into the driving seat and moving this car into the side in case those Germans wanted to come on through – one wouldn’t want to detain them – but decided maybe better not, better to leave it for Clausen on his return. Fingers crossed that he’d return. At this moment he was passing between that tank and the wreckage of Fernagut’s truck. Poor Fernagut, who would not be making captain. Clausen, at such close quarters with the tank, raising both arms for the duration of a few paces, signalling peaceful intentions – humorously, perhaps. It was beginning to make sense to her, as initial shock wore off: Wehrmacht truck with FFI painted on it, and full of gendarmes, Fernagut maybe not seeing until the last minute the dark-toned camouflage-painted tanks, not having envisaged any such things being on this road – putting his foot down, hoping to get by before they got a close look at that white lettering.

  ‘He’s at that car.’ Jacqui. ‘Oh, please God…’

  ‘He’ll be all right.’ Rosie talking to herself and Yvette as well as to Jacqui, speaking half-formed thoughts aloud more than making sense or logic. ‘Talk his way out of it somehow – tell them we’re his prisoners or something.’

  Yvette had her eyes shut. Had had plenty to keep them shut against, in recent times. Could only sit, hope, poor little thing, pray this might resolve itself.

  Come to that, it was all anyone could do.

  Both tanks were at rest, guns trained in this direction, and Clausen was stooped at the rear right-hand window of the staff car. Smoke was thinning from that heap of wreckage although there was still a bit of a glow from it, and one had a clearer view of the staff car now: big saloon, probably camouflage-painted but with lighter patches – rectangles – on its front mudguards. Army or brigade insignia, she supposed.

  He was coming back. Picking his way through the litter of it. Had stopped: looking down at the littered roadway to his left.

  ‘Oh, no…’

  He had the Luger in his hand, had half-turned and was aiming downward at – something. Loud crack of the discharge, upward movement of his arm in recoil. A step closer then, peering down – and now leaving it, coming on, circumnavigating the centre of it again. Still with the pistol in his hand, and looking around him quite intently as he came. Yvette still had her eyes shut, wouldn’t have seen that incident, but Jacqui had; it was she who’d murmured that ‘Oh, no’, and her window Clausen came to now. He’d re-pocketed his Luger.

  ‘Jacqui – take over as driver, please. Or you could, Jeanne-Marie, but I think Jacqui knows Paris better. The way we followed them through, chérie – remember?’

  Word them accompanied by a movement of the head and high-fronted Nazi cap towards what had been a truck with eight men in it. Jacqui saying, ‘I remember it well enough, probably. Most of it. But why, what are you—’

  ‘I have to go with them. A general I never heard of. I told him the story I gave my own people – following up the prisoner who should have come to me, not to Lafont—’

  ‘So what are you doing with three French girls in yo
ur car?’

  ‘One is that prisoner – who knows nothing, shouldn’t have been arrested in the first place – and you two are SD agents who’ve been working for me, will continue as agents when we leave Paris – to return before long, one hopes – so it’s in SD’s interests that you should—’

  ‘D’you have to go with them?’

  ‘Only hope I have of continuing in the service of the Reich. It’s the Free French who are in Paris – French Second Armoured Division, despatched by General Eisenhower to take possession. Advance units broke in via the Porte d’ltalie a few hours ago; the rest of the division will be in at daylight, with Americans then to back them up. Jeanne-Marie – you will take her with you?’

  ‘Of course. Who did you kill just then?’

  ‘I’m not sure. It may have been the one who travelled with us – Morice. I put him out of his agony, was all.’

  Jacqui had gone round and was getting in behind the wheel. Clausen said, ‘Everything we’ve been telling each other, chérie. Everything. In due course, however long it may be—’

  ‘However long. Take enormous care?’

  ‘I’ll get a staff job if I can… But – I’ll guide you through now.’ He pointed: ‘Around that edge of it.’ The general’s horn had blared. Clausen said quickly, ‘Be very careful yourselves. Paris will have gone mad. There’ll be small-scale battles all over, I expect. Tank battles and—’

  ‘Don’t worry, we’ll make it.’

  ‘Start up, then?’

  ‘Yes.’ Fumbling for the starter. ‘If I remember how…’

  But no problems. She got the car moving, dragging the wheel hard over then, and Clausen starting back that way – over to the left-hand side, clear of the strewn wreckage. It wouldn’t have been the best time to get a puncture. They were going to pass very close to the tank that had done the shooting; and its gun stayed on them as they approached, that turret inching round – until Clausen waved at it angrily and it stopped. Tank commander’s little joke? The other tank was in clear sight then: on the move, forging clatteringly ahead with one track on the narrow verge where trees encroached and the other crushing some more of the truck’s remains – perhaps bodies too. There’d be other traffic ploughing through or into that mess before long, Rosie thought, these sods weren’t going to do anything about it. She had a clear view of the staff car now – it had moved, shifted from the middle of the road to the right-hand side. Clausen touching his hat to the general, then stopping beside the big car’s rear left mudguard, turning to wave Jacqui over to the other side where she ought to be now, having got by the various obstructions. He might, Rosie thought, having his back to the general, have stooped to Jacqui’s open window, blown her a kiss, called Au revoir – or even Auf Wiedersehen – but he wasn’t risking any such thing, was drawn up stiffly at attention, saluting.