Rosie intervened: ‘One thing that doesn’t quite add up, by the way – you gave Dufay the casings’ diameter as two metres – but according to another intelligence report they’ve had in London—’
‘The true figure is fractionally less than –’ Jacques tapping his forehead in the effort of recollection – ‘one hundred and seventy centimetres.’
He’d surprised Colette too, with this. She’d asked him where the hell he’d got it from.
‘From Guy Fortran.’ Aside to Rosie: ‘He’s a foreman in charge of the loading and reception bay. Quite often in here. The tubes are of a size that you can’t waste a centimetre – two abreast on a flatbed, I’m talking about – without making the load too wide for the road out of here. Especially the bridge. Anyway, they’ve adapted the flatbeds so they can get two abreast – even using a smaller-diameter securing wire than they started with. That’s how tight it is.’
‘Did he volunteer this information?’
‘Right in the bar here. General conversation. It’s of considerable local interest – we’d heard the Boches were going to put in some new type of bridge made of steel, flat thing. I suppose they’d just plonk it down – which’d mean blowing up our fine old stone one, been there a hundred years. On an issue of that kind, naturally there’s public discussion.’ He’d shrugged. ‘Didn’t occur to me, at the time…’
Diameter of five feet six inches, Marilyn had said. Rosie had worked it out there and then, on paper, and the figures tallied. She’d looked up at Jacques, across the table: ‘That’s a lot better. Matches what came from the other source.’
‘Take it as proof, then?’
‘They might, I suppose. I think I would. But it’s London’s insistence there should be no doubt whatsoever… Jacques, they put two on each truck, do they?’
‘Was two, now it’s four. Managed that by building a sort of staging, so there are two above two – double-decker. The weight’s all right, apparently, that’s another thing came up in relation to the bridge.’
‘Any idea how many finished tubes sitting there?’
‘Must be at least a dozen. Fifteen, sixteen by now.’
‘So one convoy of four trucks could clear the lot out in a single trip… You don’t know anything about screw-holes where the fins are fitted, or for attachment of the warhead, anything like that?’
‘No. And if we were to ask questions of that kind—’
‘I wouldn’t suggest it. Another question though – any idea where they’re taken to in Germany?’
‘Good question – bomb them there, not here. But you’d only get it from the drivers, and who’s going to ask them?’
‘Boche drivers?’
‘Some. Others we heard have been French in Boche uniforms.’
Colette broke in. ‘You must understand, we’re not intelligence agents. Although we have worked with your people – when we had means of contact, Vic Dufay for instance—’
‘Of whom you’ve never heard… But seriously – you’ve been in this village right from the start, have you?’
‘Oh, for ever!’
‘So you’re trusted, must have good friends of long standing—’
‘We have, of course.’
‘It does seem extraordinary – this is a comment, not a criticism – that there should be not even one single informant in the entire work-force. How many employees are there, by the way?’
‘Sixty – full-timers. But – it’s the situation here, you see. Well-paid jobs, nice houses, a good school for their kids – and dead safe, as long as they keep their noses clean – so they do, they just get on with it, they don’t rock the boat!’
Colette had been out of the room at that stage, Rosie reflecting in the pause that ‘just get on with it, don’t rock the boat’ might typify the outlook of about nine-tenths of the population; therefore maybe wasn’t all that extraordinary. Jacques putting a match to his pipe, squinting at her over it… ‘Started by interrogating you, this afternoon, now you’ve turned the tables. Better at it too than we were, eh?’
‘There’s so much to ask. Stuff I don’t know anything at all about, and really need to. For instance, how did you first get the idea these might be rocket-casings?’
‘It was Colette, not me.’ Expelling a cloud of acrid smoke. Like old Destinier in Alsace he grew his own tobacco; tawny leaves of it festooned on a clothes-drying rack above the stove, in the open despite the fact that growing it for one’s own consumption was illegal, apparently. He added after another puff, ‘She was alerted to it by the patron himself.’
‘The patron. You mean—’
‘Henri Marchéval. Not that he stated it in so many words. In fact we didn’t catch on to the significance for quite some while.’
‘So what exactly—’
‘Ask her, she’ll be back in a minute.’
‘All right. But – on good terms with him, are you? What’s he like? Does he ever come here, to the auberge?’
‘How many questions in one breath?’
She’d gestured: ‘Sorry.’ Helping herself to a cigarette. ‘But – right at the centre of everything, as he must be – if he’s – accessible—’
‘Oh, he is.’ A shrug. ‘But your first question – are we on good terms with him – yes, you could say so – say it of most of the village, and as it happens Colette’s known him since she was a little girl. He comes in sometimes, yes. Has a beer, or a cognac on the days we’re allowed to sell it. Passes every day in any case – on a bike, unless it’s raining, then it’s a gazogène … Hey, chérie!’
‘What now?’ Pushing in, letting the door flap shut behind her. Winking at Rosie: ‘Calls me chérie, don’t know what he might have in mind.’
‘He was saying Henri Marchéval put you on to the rocket theory.’
‘Well – that’s the conclusion it led to. What he gave me was an indication that they were something – not to his liking.’ Shaking her head as she sat down. ‘Poor man.’
‘How, “poor”?’
‘Several ways. For instance he has a son – André – and a daughter, Claire. The son – you ever meet him or hear of him, by any chance?’
‘No. Didn’t even know of his existence.’
‘In your SOE?’
‘Are you saying that Henri Marchéval has a son who—’
‘Who is – or was – in SOE. Yes, it’s a fact.’
‘But that’s astonishing!’
‘I suppose you wouldn’t necessarily know all your colleagues?’
‘Not by any means. But – good Lord—’
‘Another fact is that about three months ago he was arrested.’
‘The son was?’
‘His father hasn’t heard from him since. But Claire also – of whom you won’t have heard either?’
‘No, I haven’t. But you don’t mean she as well as her brother—’
‘A few months before André was arrested, she was. In her case we don’t know the circumstances – I don’t believe her father does either – but Jacques and I have known for a long time that André was one of your people. Well – from the time he showed up here again – the end of ’forty-one. He’s – he was – a gutsy young man. Even as a kid, things he got up to… Perhaps after he came back he recruited his sister to work with him – would that be possible?’
‘Might be. But – I hate to say this, but if it’s months since they were arrested—’
‘I know.’ A grim nod.
Jacques murmured, ‘Wouldn’t say it to their father.’
‘I’m sure he knows darn well—’
‘Did André know you’re résistants?’
‘Yes, he did. When we heard of the arrest, that gave us some sleepless nights. But – unnecessarily, obviously he managed to keep his mouth shut. One respects that, as well as –’ a shrug – ‘feeling gratitude. The confidences between ourselves and him were mutual, you see. Natural. Having known him since he was in nappies, we were – really quite close, despite the fact there’d b
een a gap when he was at college in England. Several years, he was away. His father wanted him to come home, but – his mother’s influence, is my guess. She’s English, I should mention.’
‘She here?’
Colette shook her head. ‘She went to – Scotland, I think. Claire stayed, and worked for her father – office work, accounts, so forth. Then when André returned – which was a happy surprise for all of us, I may say, although in the circumstances somewhat alarming initially – he became the company’s representative in Paris. Liaison with Boche government agencies, they said. In reality that would have been mostly just his cover – wouldn’t it? He was supposed to have come back from Marseille – I don’t know, some story they’d concocted. He took an apartment in Paris, and Claire had one in Fontainebleau. She moved out from the manor after the Boches moved in – there was one in particular who never let her alone. A shame – she was always very close to her father – more so than André. Maybe André did recruit her – it’s possible, it wasn’t until after his return that she moved out – and if that’s the case and Monsieur Henri knew about it, it might explain that move. I mean, her departure must have been a blow to him, but as far as we know he didn’t try to stop her.’
‘Easier to have done something about the Boche, you’d think.’
‘No. Not Monsieur Henri’s style. Regrettably. But we’re getting to the point now. When Claire was arrested – early in the New Year, this was – it was André who brought the news of it—’
‘How was that?’
Colette nodded. ‘Another pointer, isn’t it? But what I was saying – Monsieur Henri reacted as if her arrest had been aimed at him. You know – to blackmail him. Jacques and I, I may say, considered this unlikely. He’d always thought first of the welfare of his workers and their families, he could have gone to England with his wife in ’forty for instance, but he wouldn’t run out on them – as she ran out on him… What I’m saying is he’d have gone along with no matter what demands.’ Shrugging… ‘I know – may not seem exactly honourable. But one can understand it, eh?’
Rosie had wondered whether Henri M. might not have been as concerned to safeguard his own business and livelihood as to look after his workers’ families. Treading carefully, she didn’t moot it. Colette continuing, ‘We thought – Jacques and I – they’d have had some simpler reason to arrest her – that maybe she had been working with André, or in that field.’
‘Did her father actually say she was a hostage?’
‘Effectively, he did. I’d gone to the manor, at his request – I should explain, he’s asked me a dozen times if I’d work for him, so many hours a week – but it’s not possible, I’ve more than enough to do here, especially with Jacques out a great deal attending to other business. But on occasion, I’ve helped out. Oh, another thing is there’s a man and wife by name of Briard who live and work at the manor – mostly for the Boches. Briard outside and his wife inside – cleaning, cooking, laundry, all of it. They live above the stables. The thing is, Monsieur Henri doesn’t like them, and he suspects Madame Briard of spying on him. He’s found his correspondence disarranged – that sort of thing.’
‘Couldn’t he fire her and get – if not you, someone else?’
‘He’d like to. But the Boches employ the Briards, she’d still be there, and if he got someone else she’d make it hard for them. She’s a mean bitch, I tell you. The Boches have more of the house than he has – although it’s his, of course, all of it – and she bows and scrapes to them… And Monsieur Henri – of whom we’re all extremely fond, there are many very likeable things about him – he’s not what you’d call a resolute man. Where he went wrong with that wife of his, in my view – let her walk all over him. Now he’s over sixty, not physically robust, and he’s under the Boches’ thumbs. There again – one of them, a captain, his name’s Wachtel and he’s an engineer – he oversees everything in the factory. Monsieur Henri still runs it – on the face of it – but it’s Wachtel who says OK, we’ll work an extra shift from now on – huh?’
‘How many Boches live in the manor?’
‘Three officers – Wachtel, and a lieutenant – Klebermann – and Major Linscheidt. He’s the boss. In the view of many, not a bad fellow. Only one eye; he was a tank commander. Under them they have – oh, two sergeants, one of whom’s a mechanician, and maybe a dozen others. Drivers, orderlies, sentries. That’s all, but patrols come through from Sens too – road and forest patrols, you never know when or where you’ll run into them. They could muster a substantial force very quickly if they needed to. In fact larger bodies of troops have inflicted themselves on us a few times – conducting sweeps of the forest is the usual thing, searching for Maquis. It hasn’t occurred for several months now, one might doubt whether it will again, but at such times they open up the Hôtel Poste.’
‘That place that looks as if it’s falling down.’
She’d nodded. ‘They hang a swastika on the pole in front, crowd the place out and bivouac on the waste ground behind it. French troops sometimes – LVF, that filth. The Boches prefer to use French to hunt down their own kind – some reason…’
‘I’m surprised you’d need a hotel and an auberge in a place as small as this.’
‘The answer is you don’t. That’s just it.’ Colette explained, ‘We do quite well here, most of the time. Not only from local custom, but people come down from Paris, for instance for fishing holidays. Not far to come, and the fishing’s excellent – trout, last summer there were record catches. Just at this moment people are staying put – for obvious reasons, and it’s why we’re empty. But the Poste was originally a large farmhouse, it was Monsieur Henri’s father who decided to turn it into a hotel – again, for fishermen, that was the great idea – when he built the manor for himself, you see. It was a very large farmyard there, where the factory is now, he’d made his fortune in some engineering business in Paris – used to come down here sometimes, loved the place, so—’
Looking at her husband. ‘Something the matter?’
Craillot took the pipe out of his mouth. ‘The family who had the Poste at the beginning of the war, Justine, were all murdered – what the Boches call “executed” – lined up against the front wall and shot, with the whole village compelled to watch. The parents and both sons they shot, the younger boy only eleven. An officer of the SS had been found dead – someone had shot him – and for some reason that family were held responsible.’
‘When was this?’
‘Christmas of ’forty-one.’
‘Were these same Boches here then?’
‘Oh, no…’
‘Were you – in this auberge?’
‘Yes. And –’ a movement of the head – ‘in the crowd at this – spectacle. We were rounded up and they held guns on us. It was then I became actively a résistant. Colette too. She’d inherited this place from an aunt who’d died only a few months before.’
‘Aunt Adèle?’
Colette smiled. ‘Another one. Adèle lived her whole life in Paris.’
‘Ah. One other question—’
‘Only one?’
‘Well – for the moment… Does Monsieur Henri know you’re résistants?’
Jacques was tapping out his pipe. ‘Almost certainly. Although –’ to Colette – ‘I personally haven’t discussed with him—’
‘At least, not since – well, right at the beginning.’ She shrugged. ‘Although of course since we were quite open with André—’
‘Yes. Things were said. For instance after the business at the Poste. But what I’m saying now is – time for bed, eh?’
‘Yes.’ Rosie agreed. ‘Very good idea. Only first – Colette, just quickly – you were going to tell me what happened after Claire’s arrest – when you went to the manor, you said—’
‘God, yes. Got side-tracked—’
‘Side-tracked yourself, chérie!’
‘I know…’
‘Nothing unusual about that either.’
‘What it was, Justine, he wanted me to put away some clothing Claire had left. After her move to Fontainebleau she’d still stayed a night or two sometimes, so she’d kept some things there. But – she’d been arrested, and André had put in a surprise appearance the day before – came down from Paris – to break the news to his father. How he’d have known about it, unless she had been working with him – well, that’s still my guess… Never mind – Monsieur Henri wanted her stuff put away, some of it had to be washed and ironed first, and he didn’t want the Briard woman to lay a finger on it. I was to pack it away, he said, “against Mam’selle Claire’s safe return”. He was – quite tearful. Really, a miserable day. But I got it all done, and on the point of leaving I said something like “Perhaps it’ll turn out to be not so serious a matter, and they’ll release her.” I was just – felt I had to say something – as one does – and then wishing I hadn’t because it made it worse, he turned away with his face in his hands. All that, all over again… Then when he’d found his voice he told me – I can hear him now – “Pray for this filthy war to end, Colette. As long as it lasts I’m tied hand and foot.” He repeated it – staring at me, his face all – you know, contorted… “Hand and foot! Why, those things we’re having to turn out for them now—”
‘He’d checked himself. Trembling, shaking his head, tears still welling, muttering only “My God. My God.” Over and over… I asked him, “What are they, those tubes? Nobody seems to know —” and he shouted, “Don’t ask! I tell you, don’t!”
‘He wasn’t going to explain. I told Jacques I thought he was having a nervous breakdown and maybe our Doctor Simonot should see him, but he wouldn’t – I mean Monsieur Henri wouldn’t… And that was all we thought of it, until later we began to put two and two together – with the secrecy about the tubes continuing as it has. Indeed we came to the conclusion that if it was so secret and important they might have arrested poor Claire as – what you said, a hostage.’
‘You didn’t pass any of this on though, until Dufay visited you just recently?’
In at the Kill Page 27
