‘By road. Flat-bed trucks in military convoy. Dufay – or Craillot – couldn’t say at what intervals.’
‘Still seems barely credible. When all you were prospecting for…’ She shook her head. ‘Do they know anything about the son?’
‘Dufay knows of him, and has reason to believe he’s an agent of SOE and working in the Paris area. I didn’t comment, thought it safer not to, but that’s his belief and the Craillots’, apparently. He was educated in England – didn’t you say?’
‘In Scotland – according to the staff officer who – I told you, conducted my final briefing and swore he – André Marchéval – was straight. You asked about him, then?’
‘And the answer to that?’
‘Oh – not possible. You scared me for a minute, but – absolutely not, Michel.’
‘What he said about young Marchéval – didn’t you say?’
‘Different – really, entirely. In any case – he was only giving his view. André was being brought home, and if he’d got there he’d have been put through the wringer. Really would. Which he’d have been well aware of, of course – why they staged his arrest. OK?’
‘If you say so.’ A shrug. ‘Anyway, the rocket thing’s got to be checked out double-quick by someone – right?’
Chapter 7
Nancy: Wednesday August 2nd
Mid-morning. The drive from Metz had taken nearly two hours, but the traffic was thinner now. A lot of it had been military and mostly northward, in particular one convoy of heavy trucks which they’d begun to think would go on for ever. Mostly gazos and bicycles now, though, in this old town with its maze of narrow streets. De Plesse shifting gear as he took yet another sharp corner. Raoul de Plesse the new man, having been called to order by Michel… A wave of the hand towards some ecclesiastical pile ahead and to the left – ‘Les Cordeliers. Church, as you see, but also a convent. And this edifice now, right next to it – the Palais Ducal. Nancy was once the capital city of the Dukes of Lorraine – as perhaps you know. It became French in 1766. Having some interest in the history of this region, I am able to give you that date. And the university, by the way, which my boy will be attending in due course, is two hundred years older still.’ Glancing at her as if expecting to be congratulated: in some respects he’d pulled himself together but he was still a pain in the neck. Another corner not far ahead, and coming up behind them a black Citroën 15. He’d caught his breath, she’d glanced back, seen it too as he slowed, edged closer to the kerb to let the thing sweep by. He’d gone a bit grey around the gills in those few seconds, during which Rosie had noted that there’d been two occupants, males in civilian suits and – unusually – no hats. Too warm, she supposed: square heads overheating. She told de Plesse – chat aimed partly at steadying his nerve – ‘In Paris they’re wearing uniform now. Shifted out of civvies at the time of the Normandy landings.’
If the one in the Citroën’s front passenger seat had looked into this vehicle en passant, he might have guessed that the middle-aged collaborator – de Plesse looked too sleek to be anything else – had picked up a somewhat faded fille de joie along the way. Dark-skinned female with bright yellow hair under a white scarf (Silvie’s), which emphasized the swarthiness of her complexion. Cold cream with an admixture of boot-polish had produced this effect: recipe devised and supplied by Silvie’s hairdresser, whose efforts had also made a great difference to Rosie’s hair, not so much in colour as in overall shaping. It had grown enough in the past month to be shaped. Having trimmed it here and there, she’d bleached it before the re-dyeing, advising Rosie to keep it as it was now, if possible, since frequent bleaching made hair brittle, liable to break off. The yellow was really too bright, though.
* * *
Another improvement, of her own design, was the padding in her cheeks, pads cut from a pre-war rubber sponge, which she’d put in to fatten her face before the new ID photo had been taken. The forger had handled the photography as well, and on his way out through the DP yard he’d taken shots of a tractor that had been rebuilt and looked like new: this was for DP advertising purposes, maybe also to justify his visit. Rosie’s photo was to be processed within hours, but these would take a few days: he’d told de Plesse, ‘Can’t do everything in a tearing rush…’
‘You’ve done a fine job, Antoine!’
‘You mean “magnificent”. And when have I not?’
Little sharp-faced man in a straw hat that made him look like a dried-out mushroom. He’d fixed all the papers, though, and substituted ration-coupons of the type that had superceded the ones Justine Quérier had had. By trade he was an architectural draughtsman, he’d told her.
She hoped these papers would get her by, now.
‘Round this next corner is where I’ll be dropping you.’
‘All right.’
‘Also wishing you the best of luck.’
‘I’m more than grateful for all you’ve done.’
‘Oh. Very little, really…’
Might have been less, too, if it hadn’t been for Michel sorting him out, on Monday night. When they’d finished that late-night discussion de Plesse had gone out to do his security rounds of the yard and workshops, and she’d asked Michel whether he’d noticed a certain off-handedness in their host’s attitude towards her. Knowing that he had noticed it, wondering whether he could account for it.
‘I suppose I’m a nuisance to him.’
‘More a matter of his attitude to SOE. He’s – you might say, on his dignity – in relation to SOE, not you personally. I’ve had trouble with it before, problems getting him to liaise with your Nancy réseau over the transmission of wireless messages – although it was agreed in London that we might call on your people for that kind of help if we needed to. Did you realize, your administration has merged now with BCRA?’
’Really?’
BCRA stood for Bureau Central de Rensignements et d’Action: the Free French, Gaullist intelligence and sabotage organization. Between whom and ‘F’ Section SOE at staff levels there’d been a certain frigidity in past years, although in the field cooperation between agents had been more common-sense. Michel told her, ‘As of July 1st. Makes us brothers and sisters at arms, eh?’
‘None too soon.’
‘But the de Plesse problem – I mentioned to you before, didn’t I – on the subject of getting news of you back to your people? Part of it is he doesn’t like the Nancy réseau being able to contact him. Makes him feel exposed. Also – this is only a suspicion, why he might have such reservations – there were rumours which some believed – a year ago, about a réseau with the code-name “Prosper”?’
‘Blown, wasn’t it? Usual problem – infiltration. But why—’
‘The whisper was that your people had deliberately sacrificed it, as part of some deception plot – connected with the invasion of Sicily, allegedly – and of course there were French nationals involved, who were all arrested. Anyway that’s the story that went round.’
‘And it’s rubbish.’ Crossing fingers: she hoped it was.
Michel accepting anyway, shrugging… ‘Could be that he likes to bear a grudge. I’ll sort a few things out with him. The basis of it with him though – what it comes down to is resentment of foreigners on his territory.’
‘So who’s a foreigner?’
‘Good question, Rosalie. I’ll bring it to his attention. One thing I have in mind to raise with him is that SOE in Nancy must know of a safe-house where you could stay a few days – and as he’s got to fix a meeting for you, he could fix that too. Otherwise it would have to be a last-minute arrangement, which might be difficult. Anyhow – you go on up now.’
‘You’ve been terrific in all this, Michel. I owed you my life already – now all this help—’
‘As I said, it’s as much in our interests as yours. And – in any case…’
Leaving it there: words ostensibly without meaning, left hanging in the air between them: in any case…’
Then yesterday mor
ning when they’d been alone for a few moments – he’d given her Victor Dufay’s sketch-map of St Valéry-sur-Vanne, also explained where to find Dufay in Troyes – she’d asked him quietly, ‘How did you manage it?’ Referring to the already noticeable change he’d wrought in de Plesse. He’d only shrugged, grimacing slightly, conspiratorially: they’d been on their own for no more than a few seconds. And one final, private exchange just shortly before he’d left, when he’d explained to her that after he’d collected his pianist from somewhere in the Luxembourg direction they’d be driving south to his new area of operations, not stopping either here or in Nancy.
‘Sadly, therefore – may not see each other again. At least for – well, who knows…’
‘Good luck, Michel. And thank you again.’
‘Very good luck to you – with all of it.’
She’d suggested – quietly again, the de Plesse son, Maurice, being possibly in earshot – ‘Might manage a reunion, one day.’
A nod. Eyes on hers, and serious. ‘I suppose SOE in London would tell me where you are – if I asked them nicely?’
‘Don’t see why they shouldn’t.’ De Plesse had come into the room at that moment. Rosie not looking at Michel then; but excusing herself to herself, later on, by daydreaming of being with Ben in London, Lise joining them for a meal in one of Ben’s rather boozy haunts, and Michel just happening along – by her own crafty pre-arrangement, of course.
Might Lise see the man she saw?
Might not. Might not want to. Might hate the very concept of Noally being replaceable.
In any case, she thought in de Plesse’s gazo, getting into the middle of Nancy now – the Boches having put up posters with Lise’s portrait on them didn’t prove she’d got away. Any more than it did in her own case – she could have died in Thérèse’s house, for instance.
* * *
‘Here we are. The parting of our ways.’
Easing his gazo in to the kerb, and braking. On the other side a narrow alleyway led off at right-angles between tall buildings. Shabby, scarred, and the alley itself littered, its walls streaked. At a glance, she could guess how it would smell. He nodded towards it. ‘Through there. Only a few metres.’
‘Just a moment, though…’
Glancing back: her view of two gendarmes whom she’d spotted approaching the last corner, and who’d now reached it – she’d been watching to see whether they’d turn this way or the other – was abruptly blanked off by a military van pulling in beside them. Milice: at least, the one getting out on this outer side was. Khaki shirt, black tie and beret, wide leather belt and holster.
He’d gone to the rear. De Plesse grumbling, ‘Nothing to do with us…’
‘And let’s keep it that way. If you don’t mind.’
Not, in other words, cross the road within a few metres of them, burdened with her gear and looking like God only knew what… All right for de Plesse – he wasn’t on bloody posters all over town. Not that she’d seen any yet, the way they’d come, although she’d been looking out for billboards. It was enough to know they were there, that any of those men – the milicien climbing back in beside the driver and the two gendarmes with the rear doors open – getting in, she supposed – would as likely as not have likenesses of herself and Lise fairly well in mind; the posters must have been up for several weeks now.
The van was backing – past the corner, and across the end of the side-street.
‘All right now – believe me?’
It had stopped, was moving forward again, turning away into that side-street. She put her hand on the door. She was going to have to get used to looking as she did, but this first public appearance was unnerving. She told him – surprising herself – ‘I have had considerable experience of this kind of work, Monsieur.’
‘Yes, well…’ Pointing with his balding head towards the alley. ‘Up there, and round to the left. Give Rouquet my regards.’
Guillaume Rouquet. Code-name ‘Boris’. Memory was still working: at breakfast yesterday she’d been able to recite the names from Michel’s briefing of the night before: Victor Dufay in Troyes, Jacques and Colette Craillot at the Auberge la Couronne in St Valéry-sur-Vanne. It was a relief that she hadn’t lost the ability to memorize: one did not want to make or keep notes. Flashback to Rouen a year ago, when she’d had to put everything on paper for the benefit of the man she’d later knifed to death in a train’s lavatory. Could have been ten years ago… She was out on the narrow pavement; de Plesse staying put, watching traffic in his rear-view mirror, making a show of it, she thought, to justify inertia. And of course keen to be on his way, to be rid of her. She opened the car’s rear door, hauled out her basket and the old suitcase Silvie had given her.
The basket had a cat in it. Cat trapped in the DP yard this morning by Maurice de Plesse before he’d gone off to school. He’d been rejoicing earlier in the fact that this was the last week of term, summer holidays imminent; he hated book-work, he’d told her, and after the cat’s capture she’d suggested to him that if he didn’t make the grade as an engineer he could always emigrate to the Yukon and become a trapper: he’d laughed delightedly and begun stammering about wearing the skins of skunks and bears, but Papa who’d been present hadn’t even smiled.
‘All right?’
‘Yeah.’ Shutting the rear door by pushing against it with the suitcase, then the front one with her hip. Movements intended to conform with her appearance. Calling to de Plesse then, ‘Adieu. Thanks for the lift.’
‘I trust the animal will recover.’
That exchange had been for the ears of passers-by: the nearest an elderly man and woman crowding past and staring with undisguised interest at the dusky-skinned artificial blonde and the pompous-looking driver leaning across to wind up the near window. The blonde with a smile on her face, watching him move off. The hairdresser had suggested, ‘Those beautiful teeth show to great advantage in contrast with the dark complexion. You should make a show of them, smile a lot, eh?’
‘Think that’ll help?’
‘Sure it will!’ She was a woman in her forties, well upholstered, and herself a blonde with a dark parting. She knew her business, and this kind of business too, it seemed. Telling Rosie, ‘It’s your mouth, my dear, not just the teeth, you got a smashing mouth, you know that? Yeah, course you do! See – they aren’t thinking hey, this is some résistante on the run; they’re thinking, boy, get an eyeful of that!’ Heavy body shaking with mirth…
In principle, good advice, though. A résistante with a price on her head wouldn’t be making a public spectacle of herself, she’d want to be invisible. As Rosie rather wished she could have been now – while aware that it was precisely the impression she must not give. Crossing the road, basket in one hand, suitcase in the other. Her skirt – one Roxane had grown out of – was a bit tight. New shoes – another present from Silvie, wooden shoes of course but with articulated soles – click-clacking on the cobbles: and a gazo deliberately not slowing – might actually have speeded up slightly – so that she only just made it without running. You didn’t have to be German, she thought, to be a shit. The cat was moving around inside the basket – Thérèse’s, with the central handle and a half-lid each side of it, perfect except that it had more room in it than any normal cat could need, and the balance kept shifting as the animal lurched around. Maurice had tied the lid flaps down for her, warning her that it was wild, a ratter and mouser, a yard-cat, completely undomesticated.
Poor thing. Probably scared stiff. Might have been worth its weight in diamonds though, if those miliciens had made a nuisance of themselves. Peculiar-looking woman with a wild cat, taking it to the vet – who’d want to see papers?
The alley was only about a metre wide, and stank as she’d known it would. Passing the side doors of shops that faced on to the street – or might have been entrances to apartments above the shops – then rounding the corner into a back-street – itself too narrow for motor traffic – and seeing the sign-board on her le
ft: MAGNE ET RACKE, Vétérinaires.
Two front windows obscured by internal Venetian blinds, and a green-painted door between them. Knocker in the form of an iron horse’s head: she rapped with it, and a woman’s voice called immediately, ‘Entrez!’ She pushed the door open and went in: into a vestibule with a counter like a hotel reception-desk and behind it a short, stockily built red-headed girl in a white coat staring at her. Turning to push the door shut: conscious of that stare and wondering again whether she wasn’t a bit too noticeable. It was a point they’d discussed at some length, in the de Plesse house: but it was indisputable that the milk-chocolate tint did hide the scarring on her forehead, and for technical reasons – the hairdresser’s – blonde was the only colour she could adopt, without looking too much like the old Rosie with a suntan.
She’d put her suitcase down, and lifted the basket on to the counter. Surprisingly, no sound or movement from the cat.
‘Madame?’
‘It’s a cat. Monsieur Rouquet knows about it, he’s expecting me. I’m Justine Quérier.’
* * *
‘Mam’selle Quérier to see you – with a cat. She says you were expecting her.’
‘I was indeed, Béa.’ Sounds of movement in there – a chair scraping back, a drawer pushed shut. The redhead stood aside, wordlessly inviting her to go on in. She – Béa – had taken possession of the basket; asking her now, ‘What is its name, Mam’selle?’
She shook her head. ‘I don’t think it has one.’
She couldn’t safely have made one up either, not knowing its sex. But she’d know this man’s English name, in a moment – with an effort of memory… He was staring back at her, obviously startled by her bizarre appearance, and just as obviously wouldn’t have any recall of one of a class of trainees to whom he’d lectured three years ago at Beaulieu in Hampshire, where she’d been in the final stages of her SOE training course and he’d come down as a visiting lecturer. At that time he’d been one of the few who’d already been in and out of France as a chef de réseau.
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