The House of Flowers

by Charlotte Bingham

  ‘But you have been so generous already, dear Eric. This dress. This jacket – the shoes – and now this hat.’

  ‘A woman as beautiful as you must be allowed to show off her beauty. And I could not bear this story of how you lose everything in this fire. The fortunes of war, alas, are not always good fortunes.’

  ‘At least I escaped with my life, Eric. My poor husband was not so lucky.’

  ‘He might not have been – and for that I am so sorry,’ the officer remarked as he paid for Lily’s latest purchase. ‘But then one man’s misfortune?’

  Eric smiled at her. As Lily smiled back she considered that if there was not a war on, and if Eric had not been her enemy, she might – but only might just – have found him attractive enough to allow him to buy her the fineries she now wore. As it happened, her plan had been easier to put into operation than she could have dared hope. In Lisieux, she had set out her stall to find a woman her size and shape who was well dressed and obviously living a comfortable enough life under occupation by some means or other. This would not prove difficult, as Lily had long ago realised. It seemed to her that it was a whole lot easier to live fairly well in Occupied France than it was in Unoccupied Britain. Here in France there were few if any shortages. There was food and drink in abundance and apart from the curfew there were few restrictions imposed on daily life. Of course, loss of freedom of movement and speech was one of the greatest handicaps, but as Lily had observed, provided you kept your nose clean and obeyed the basic rules, you not only survived but could survive very well, particularly if you were a pretty unattached woman.

  So once she had targeted a woman of her own physical disposition Lily waited till she had left her house and then she burgled her. She took just the number of clothes and shoes she needed as well as the necessary cosmetics, all of which she packed neatly into one of the woman’s expensive suitcases. She took two handbags, some stockings and lingerie, a few pieces of small but valuable-looking silverware which she immediately sold in the very next town, and, as a lucky bonus, four hundred francs that she found in a sock under the mattress.

  In the town where she sold the silver she checked into a small pension in the back streets and changed into her new personality. Looking like the proverbial million dollars she then sought out the cafés and restaurants frequented by the German officers and sat at the bar looking aloof and unobtainable. So successful was her apparent reserve that she had offers of drinks within her first ten minutes.

  Eric had seemed the most susceptible of all the young officers she met at the Café Montmorency. He was a languid soul, much given to striking poses and admiring himself whenever possible in looking-glasses. That was the nice bit. The rest of him was all Nazi storm troop officer, cold grey eyes, a mouth that curled in permanent disdain, and a set to his whole physique that suggested only arrogance. Yet Lily spotted a weakness, one that lay as ever in conceit. As long as someone was conceited someone else could pander to them, flatter them, sweet-talk them into indiscretions, and Eric was going to prove the perfect example of that rule.

  Lily had to do nothing – at least as yet – to get him dancing attendance. In fact the less she did the more he sought her company and her approval. In order deliberately to irk him she would often in the early part of the evenings she spent in the café flirt more with his colleagues than with him, always however returning her attention to him just when he was about to become disenchanted. Her problem was that she did not have very much time, so she had to hurry, but she had to do so without making it look as though that were the case.

  But before she could put her strategem into play she needed some vital information, specifics she could only get from the Underground. She had one number she could call, but only once, and only in absolute extremis. Considering the danger to her life, she decided this had to qualify as that sort of case and so she made the call.

  ‘Brown mouse,’ she said. ‘I need names from a dead cell – the nearer to Rouen the better.’

  ‘How many beans in a can, brown mouse?’

  ‘Seven hundred and five.’

  There followed a short silence while a decision was obviously being made. Lily stayed patiently silent in return, not wishing to hurry or worry.

  ‘You need an exit?’

  ‘I think I have one – and can do better than that. I think I can bring down a tree.’

  There was no hesitation now. A list of eight names, a location, the cell code name and its most recent missions followed, all of which Lily took down quickly in shorthand.

  Then she hung up. She hoped the line was clear the other end and that she had not been long enough on the line anyway for a trace to be made. She would never forgive herself if, in order to save her own life, she had endangered the lives of others – or, worse, caused them to lose their lives, however unwittingly.

  Chapter Thirteen

  For once Lily was dining alone with Eric. This was what she had most wanted to happen, although it was also something that she feared since she knew he was bound to make a move on her sooner or later. But that was a risk she had to take, because without it she had absolutely no chance of succeeding. Besides, she knew that if she was not prepared to take risks she should have stayed behind a desk.

  ‘Don’t you so hate the Jews?’ he wondered, picking up a conversation Lily had hoped would not be rekindled, although she knew that if she could see this one through and convince him of her sympathy, she would win his trust in her completely.

  ‘What do you think?’ she said as disparagingly as she could. ‘My father’s import export business was quite ruined by the Jews. They bled him dry.’

  ‘They are an intolerable people altogether,’ Eric sighed, wiping the corners of his mouth delicately on his linen napkin. ‘The Führer is so absolutely right in wishing to cleanse the world of them. Do you not agree?’

  ‘If I was a man I would help him do it,’ Lily replied, privately begging her Jewish grandmother for forgiveness.

  Eric laughed. ‘You are the most delicious woman, Lily,’ he said. ‘You are definitely someone I wish to be on our side. So you agree that we are the master race, yes? That the world will be a better place when we can control the sort of people who breed.’

  ‘If they turn out anything like you – and me,’ Lily said, sipping her wine, ‘then of course the world will not only be a better place but a much lovelier one.’

  ‘I would like to kiss you now, Lily. In fact I think I shall.’ He pulled her face towards him with one hand and kissed her full on the mouth. ‘You taste good. I look forward even more now to later tonight.’

  Lily smiled back at him, wishing she could feel the same. But she had no alternative. He was her only way out.

  He took her to his hotel, a place the Germans had requisitioned, formerly one of the best hotels in the city. He took her straight up to his huge and luxurious bedroom on the first floor, where he poured them both a large brandy.

  ‘Are you assuming I’m going to sleep with you, Eric?’ Lily asked as he handed her the cognac.

  ‘I never work on assumptions, Lily,’ he replied. ‘I only ever act on certainties.’

  ‘Is that a compliment?’

  ‘It is certainly no insult. But in one way it is a compliment – to you. I mean that I should wish to sleep with you. I can have any woman in this town – more or less – and not only in this town. Sometimes I have to apply a little pressure, you know? Some small reminder of what might happen to them or to someone else should they not find me as desirable as I am finding them. They always say yes. In the end.’

  ‘You know,’ Lily said, putting her head to one side, ‘I think one of the most attractive things about you is your complete and utter arrogance.’

  ‘And one of the most attractive things about you are your breasts. Now please come here – I think I have done with talking.’

  As he undressed her, Lily thought soulfully of the things she was required to do for England. She had not wanted to sleep with him; she
had not intended to do so. She had in fact prepared all sorts of female excuses and reasons for not doing so, but somehow she felt that if she tried anything like that on this dangerous and deeply unpleasant man, he would either sit it out and wait, or else he would simply rape her. Besides, she needed vital information from him, and what better way to get it than to sleep with the enemy?

  Oddly enough, when it was all finally over and Eric lay deeply asleep beside her, Lily reflected that it hadn’t been quite such a terrible ordeal as she had feared. Storm-Trooping Eric had turned out to be a more than adequate lover.

  ‘Do you always sleep with your pistol under your pillow?’ Lily asked him in the morning as they sat up in bed, trying to find the energy to get up.

  ‘I only ever sleep with it under my pillow for good reason,’ Eric replied.

  ‘And what was last night’s good reason?’

  ‘If you hadn’t slept with me I was going to kill you.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘If you hadn’t slept with me I would have known you were not what you said you were. And so I would have killed you.’

  He had breakfast sent up to the room, fresh croissants and very good coffee. They sat at a table in the window watching the sun rise over the beautiful city.

  ‘Anyway,’ Lily began as idly as she could, knowing this was possibly the last chance she would have. ‘As I told you when we met, I used to work for the Resistance.’

  ‘I thought you still did?’ he replied, looking up quickly.

  ‘Yes, of course, I explained that. I just am not so involved with them as I was. It’s very hard since I began working for you lot as well to put in the same hours.’

  Eric found this hilarious and roared with laughter.

  ‘How I wish there were more like you, Lily! In fact I would look more kindly on those French scum if they had a few more fighters like you. Anyhow – the reason you changed sides was because they killed your lover.’

  ‘Don’t look like that. As if it was something only the French would do! You tell me a better reason! No, don’t bother – you are all pragmatic German and I am all emotional French! But when they accuse your lover of being a double agent, and then without a proper trial or hearing take him out and shoot him in the back of the head – you think you stay enamoured of the Resistance? Besides, now they are all Communist pigs, and I am no Communist.’

  ‘Thank God.’

  ‘Enough of that,’ Lily said, pretending to try to control her mock outrage. ‘Let’s talk about today. Today you tell me the Gestapo go and seek revenge on Cell Blue in – where is it? In the caves in the St-Estèphe area they use as their base?’

  ‘No, no, Lily, that is not what I said. I said nothing of the sort.’

  ‘But that is who you are after, surely? Cell Blue? The most potent cell here – in this area? They were responsible for – I can hardly tell – it might be easier to tell you what they were not responsible for! Guy Rochfort? He killed what – ten of your men! Pierre Dupont? He blew up four tanks last week alone! You must remember the tanks you lost?’

  Eric nodded, about to interrupt but not yet allowed.

  ‘If you’re not going after Cell Blue, what are you doing? Who are you going after? You’re not going to let them slip through your fingers, surely?’

  She was glad to see Eric visibly disconcerted for the first time. So now she let him have his go, cocking her head on one side while she waited for illumination.

  ‘I have issued instructions for a unit called the Red Birds to be rounded up.’

  ‘The Red Birds?’ Lily said aghast. ‘The Red Birds?’

  ‘They work from Dumeaux. They’re led by someone called Chantal – and someone called Gérard the Great—’

  Lily frowned as if she had misheard. ‘Gérard was killed three weeks ago. Chantal fled to Spain, so I heard. But go on. Go on.’

  ‘You are sure?’

  ‘Eric – darling man – I have the right information. I have much better information than you, my dear. Gérard was killed in a skirmish one night when they were trying to bring in an English drop. They probably tried to cover it up because he was a very important guy – he was the area leader and very high up altogether in the Resistance – and if they know you know he is dead . . .’ Lily shrugged tellingly. ‘But you know what I think? I say you are barking up the wrong tree, and worse – you are about to make a terrible fool of yourself.’

  Eric didn’t like that, just as Lily hoped he would not.

  ‘What was this other cell you were talking about?’

  Lily told him. She told him the names of all the members, the exact location and their track record. She could do that with impunity because she knew the cell had been disbanded and that the members had moved on to pastures new under new identities, some of them hopefully to Dumeaux.

  When she had finished Eric got on the telephone at once to his headquarters to inform them of the information that had come to hand and to recommend an immediate change of plan and target. Half an hour later his telephone rang and it was confirmed that the raiding party had been redirected to search the caves and mountains of the St-Estèphe area in search of a group called Cell Blue, led by two men called Rochfort and Dupont.

  ‘I shall have to leave now, alas,’ Eric said, much to Lily’s vast but well concealed relief. ‘I have much to thank you for.’

  ‘No, no.’ She laughed. ‘I have much to thank you for. Perhaps tonight you will give me something for which I shall be even more grateful?’

  ‘I shall give the matter considerable thought during the day,’ Eric agreed. ‘And if today we are successful in rounding up these cochons, I may even let you treat me.’

  As soon as he was well and truly gone, Lily dressed and departed, leaving the hotel as if she was a resident about to return, and disappearing into the backways and alleys of the town.

  She needed transport desperately, having consulted her little book of maps and seeing how far away Dumeaux was. What she had to find was a small garage with a petrol supply, and a motor car.

  She asked around, with as much innocence as she could, pretending she knew the name of the garage but not the location, then the location but not the name of the garage, before being directed to a small Citroën workshop in the back streets. There were a couple of two-door Citroëns parked out the front, the sort favoured by the Gestapo when making one of their flying raids, fast, nimble cars, one of which would suit Lily’s purposes admirably. She was happy to see there was also a gasoline pump.

  The proprietor was bent over the open bonnet of some other car which he was busy servicing. The first thing he knew about having a visitor was the feel of a gun barrel in his neck.

  Lily told him not to say anything, just to move quietly to his office and get the keys for one of the Citroëns. She stayed behind him all the time, the gun barrel now in his back and concealed under her jacket, which she had taken off specifically for the purpose.

  Once he had the keys, she walked him to the car and the pump, and ordered him to fill the car to the brim. He was about to say something but Lily stopped him by pressing the gun barrel even harder into his back. The car was duly filled. Then she walked the proprietor back to his office, opened the heavy door of a closet at the back and pushed him in. He still had his back to her for which Lily was grateful since she had no wish to see his face as she crashed what he had thought was a gun barrel but in fact was a length of heavy small-calibre lead piping down on the back of his head. As he fell unconscious to the floor, Lily locked the closet, threw the key in the rubbish bin, and getting into the Citroën drove at a steady pace out of the city.

  Once on the open road she could drive as fast as she liked. There was next to no traffic and what there was seemed largely agricultural. Dumeaux lay nearly twenty miles north of Rouen, and she was there in half an hour, once she had got free of the city. It was a pretty little town, a place that seemed all but deserted when Lily parked the Citroën in the square and wondered where to start looking.r />
  On the far side of the square she noticed a blacksmith at work, shoeing a large farm horse. Like most farriers he was a strong man, built like an ox, nut brown from the sun and covered in a slick of perspiration. Working on what she liked to call her theory that such a man generally was a typical Resistance fighter, which she privately admitted was more guesswork than constructive conjecture, she approached him, admiring his skill and the fine animal on which he was working.

  Then she asked him where she might find Gérard le Grand. As she did so, the thought suddenly dawned on her that if anyone was going to be called Gérard le Grand it was possibly this giant of a man.

  He didn’t even look up.

  ‘Who is asking?’

  ‘A friend of Pierre Dupont. And Guy Rochfort.’

  ‘So? Why are you interested?’

  ‘I am an ornithologist, monsieur. I have come to see your famous Red Birds.’

  Again he didn’t look up. He simply continued nailing the shoe on to one vast hoof held in the crook of his lap.

  ‘There is a very good little bar over there, m’selle,’ he said. ‘Chantal’s. The proprietor is a friend of mine. She should be able to help you. Tell her Gérard sent you.’

  The first thing Lily told Chantal was of the activities of the Gestapo back in Rouen, alerting her to the fact that they were after both her and Gérard in person, as well as their cell whose code name was also known to them, as was its location. There was little doubt in either of their minds that once they had drawn a blank in St-Estèphe, or someone had double-checked their records, the Gestapo would set off post haste for Dumeaux, so the cell must disband and escape as fast as possible.

  But first Lily needed the use of a radio transmitter. Since it was deemed too dangerous for her to use the one in the village belonging to the Red Birds, Lily was directed to a tiny hamlet up in the hills eight miles to the east where she was to ask for Father Roman. He would allow her to use the transmitter hidden behind the altar of his tiny church. What was more, there was a large farm on the outskirts of the hill village that might well be ideal for landing and taking off a small aircraft.