With the light out, ready for bed – essential chores completed, clean gear put ready for the morning and cyanide capsules transferred from today’s – which God willing she’d launder when she had an hour or two to spare – she opened her curtains just enough to take a cautious look down the road towards the factory. She’d heard a truck passing, just as she’d got up here, had stood motionless for a few seconds – as so often, half expecting it to stop – but it must have been either a patrol passing through or a truck returning to the manor. The road was empty now in any case: some patches of it moonlit, others shadowed, no movement discernible – in fact not even a parked vehicle in sight.
* * *
She was down for breakfast at six, finding Colette already there, with porridge on the stove.
‘Did you sleep, Justine?’
‘Oh, yes. I was tired. How about you?’
‘Not much. My own fault – cognac always does me in. And it makes Jacques snore, which doesn’t exactly help. Help yourself to coffee?’
‘Thank you.’ She took it black, despite its peculiar taste. Hadn’t slept all that well. There’d been dreams too, including the one Ben called the Rouen Nightmare, which she hadn’t had in months, had begun to think maybe she’d escaped from, finally… She pulled a chair back: ‘Jacques down yet?’
‘Sweeping, out there. The pavement.’
‘Ah.’ He’d also be seeing whatever was going on out there.
‘May I borrow Yvette’s bike again?’
‘Of course. They’re due back at the weekend, you realize?’
‘Yes – you told me. I’m looking forward to meeting them. Obviously that’s one reason you wouldn’t dream of – well, not being here.’
‘We wouldn’t consider it in any case. Leaving the place empty?’
‘Mightn’t it be as well to let them stay where they are for the time being – with their cousins? Until things settle down, or – after all, there are battles being fought, in that direction?’
‘I’d sooner have them with me. So would you, if they were yours. But if it did seem safer for them to stay there – when the time comes—’
‘Only two days to the weekend, Colette—’
‘We’re aware of it. Jacques in fact will be speaking to them this evening. At least, I hope… Here – porridge.’ She brought her own to the table as well as Rosie’s. ‘God knows how long my lord and master’ll be.’ A querying glance: ‘He’s a good man, you know?’
‘One of the best ever, I’d say.’ She dipped her spoon in, raised it and blew on its steaming contents. ‘Quick on the uptake, too.’
‘Surprised you on occasion, has he?’
‘Impressed me, certainly.’
She wasn’t going to mention that Victor Dufay had told Michel that Jacques wasn’t all that bright – or that her own first impression had seemed to bear it out. ‘Colette – a thought I had, in the night – about Charles Saurrat. If Monsieur Henri were to be interrogated—’
‘Let’s pray he isn’t.’
‘But in case he is – don’t you think Saurrat should be warned? Best of all, might clear out now, until it’s over? After all, he has a brother-in-law with Guichard, hasn’t he? And Monsieur Henri wouldn’t have the feeling for him that he must have for you and Jacques?’
‘I’m not sure that any such feeling would –’ she shrugged – ‘be likely to save the day, exactly… But – yes, I’ll suggest it. And on that subject – if you felt inclined to disappear, Justine—’
‘No. Thanks, but—’
‘We wouldn’t have to be involved. You told us who you were, we accepted that in good faith, now you’ve gone – heaven knows where or why—’
‘I wouldn’t know where or why – or how. And in any case…’ Shaking her head. Partly because she’d given them her word she’d see it through – one principle in SOE doctrine being to keep one’s word, since otherwise the firm itself would be discredited – also because if there was even a glimmer of a chance of getting André out to London—
‘Ah. Speak of the devil…’
Jacques: sound of the front door shutting: then the bolt banging over. Clatter of a broom tossed into a cupboard then, and a few heavy steps. Clash of the swing door… ‘Sleep all right, Justine?’
‘Not badly, Jacques, thank you. Is anything happening, out there?’
‘Practically nothing that I could see. Despite sweeping every square centimetre a dozen times.’ He stopped at the stove, where Colette was ladling out more porridge. ‘Trucks down by the square – may have come from Sens, in which case they’ll have brought troops, presumably, but I didn’t see any – although I was privileged to see Wachtel go rushing by. Driving himself – which could mean they’re stretched. But otherwise nothing in or out of the manor at all. Thank you, chérie.’ He took his bowl, and asked Rosie – who’d finished, was about to get up – ‘Going to try your luck, are you?’
‘Might as well.’ On her feet. ‘See if they’ll let me by is the first thing.’
‘Wouldn’t think of joining the boys au vert, would you? Emile’d make you welcome. Until things blow over?’
Colette said, ‘I just tried her on that, Jacques.’
‘Oh.’ Shrugging. ‘And you told me she’d spit in your eye, didn’t you?’ A wink at Rosie as he put his bowl down. ‘I must admit, getting you out might be a problem. On the other hand—’
‘Why not check that – see if they’ll let you deliver charcoal somewhere? I don’t mean check on my behalf, necessarily, but since we don’t know what’s been going on we should act just normally – don’t you think?’
‘If they’ll let us.’
‘Chérie—’
‘I didn’t mean to say it in that tone. I was thinking of road-blocks and so forth. No, I agree with Justine – one heard explosions – gunfire maybe – one’s naturally concerned, but—’
‘Exactly.’
Jacques’ hands were light on her shoulders as he stooped to kiss her. ‘Luck, Justine.’
* * *
Colette had kissed her too – after Jacques, standing back, had said to her, ‘Now your turn…’ Cycling out of the alley now, five minutes later; swinging right, past the butcher’s and baker’s shops, thinking that this was Thursday – August 10th – and she’d met those two for the first time on Sunday. Less than four days ago, but she felt she knew them better than one might come to know others in as many years.
One of the great things, in this racket. By and large, those who were with you damn well were with you.
Some vehicle which hadn’t been in sight when she’d started was coming up behind her from the direction of the village, and the entrance to the manor was still about a hundred metres ahead. She pedalled more slowly: if it was going to turn in there, let it do so well before she did, leave her to face the sentry’s challenge on her own, sans audience or complications. She had a presentiment that she would be stopped this time, and required to show her papers, although last time – yesterday – she’d been let by unchallenged, and the day before she’d come with Colette, whom of course the Boche had recognized…
Car coming up close on her left now. Pillared entrance gates about thirty metres ahead. Pedalling normally – slowish – and keeping well over to the right.
Staff car, camouflage-painted, soldier-driver on his own in front, wearing a helmet. Two officers in the back: most noticeable was the tall young lieutenant from the gendarmerie – Klebermann, he of the small head – even smaller for the huge cap surmounting it – and protuberant ears. The other man she barely saw. The car was slowing, about to turn in; Rosie free-wheeling by this time, but aware that it might be unwise to be seen as hesitant or dithering: being here because she’d made perfectly legitimate arrangements with Monsieur Henri, there was no damn reason to dither.
Glancing back. Nothing else coming. Swinging over…
The staff car had slowed to a crawl as it entered, Klebermann with his head in the wound-down window, apparently conversing with th
e sentry who’d come out of the black-painted guard-hut. Another soldier was emerging from it: turning her way and at the same time unslinging his Schmeisser machine-pistol. The other one – Klebermann too – also turning this way, showing interest. The car had stopped.
Rosie dismounted, wheeled the bike towards them.
‘Halt!’
She didn’t recognize any of them except Klebermann – who was out of the car now, standing with his long, booted legs apart, fists on his hips. It was the soldier he’d been talking to who’d bawled at her: fattish, early twenties, looked as if he spent all his spare time indoors. Schmeisser still slung, but levelled near-enough in her direction, his right hand resting on it and the other one extended now towards her.
‘Papers!’
She leant the bike against herself, reached into her jacket’s inside pocket. In the same moment – actually as she looked down, to cope with the pocket which was rather narrow for easy extraction of the folded wad of papers – she saw that the officer who’d been in the car with Klebermann – and was now getting out – was SS. An Oberleutnant – somehow roughed-up, savage-looking. Just that quick sight of him – a glance of a second or two seconds’ duration – chilled her. He looked – well, exhausted – but also the adjective that had occurred to her first – savage.
Exuding malice: a glare of loathing directed personally at her.
Klebermann had said something – to her? – in German. She stared – let him see her bewilderment…
‘Pardon?’
‘Fräulein –’ he was consulting a notebook – ‘Justine Quérier?’
‘Mais oui, M’sieur!’
Further bewilderment at being named: letting him see that, but not see the sudden fear of imminent arrest. Guessing he’d have her name there on an arrest list with others, probably including Craillot, Jacques; Craillot, Colette; Saurrat, Charles… They’d have been at it all night, she supposed – questioning, analysing: would already have Monsieur Henri in custody. Klebermann had muttered something to the guard who was still waiting for her papers: and his SS friend – she hadn’t looked at him again but was very much aware of him and of his movements – had just stalked past her, back towards the gates. Klebermann clearing his throat before trying his French on her now: ‘For what is it that you come here?’
‘At the request of Monsieur Marchéval. It’s been arranged I should work for him – as femme de menage.’ Pause: searching for signs of comprehension, and not seeing any; maybe she’d spoken too fast for him. Her hand was still on the papers inside Thérèse’s jacket: nobody had told her they weren’t wanted now, but the soldier who’d demanded them had been upstaged by Klebermann – who was framing words in French again: ‘You – domestique, chez Monsieur Marchéval?’
‘But yes, my captain!’
‘Leutnant – pas capitaine.’
‘Oh—’
The SS lieutenant was returning towards the car: she thought he’d glanced at her as he passed. Klebermann meanwhile gesturing to the soldier, telling him – in German, but the tone of voice made his meaning obvious – ‘It’s in order, let her pass.’
‘Jawohl…’
Waving her on, into the manor grounds. The SS man was getting back into the car – stooping double as if crawling in, then flopping back. Mad dog back into its kennel… Relief, the sudden miracle of deliverance, had her actually murmuring thanks to Klebermann – who ignored her, had turned away to address the other soldier – whom she recognized now as having been on guard here the day before. Distracted, she made a hash of mounting to start with but got herself together then, got going – around the car and on down the middle of the drive towards the manor: slight left-hand bend, then similarly to the right – with the house in sight now, framed between banks of rhododendrons. She could hear the car coming up behind: had in her mind an image of the SS Oberleutnant – darkly unshaven, slack-mouthed, eyes red-rimmed, and that vicious, beaten look. As if he’d been out on a drunken bender, been picked out of some gutter. The weirdest thing though, and most frightening, was that impression of intense hatred. Even though one’s reaction was entirely reciprocal… Ahead now was where the drive divided, encircling the central lawn and flagpole, the right-hand branch leading to Monsieur Henri’s wing, left one curving round to the front of the house but with an offshoot into a parking area – in which she had a quick sight of another staff car and several small trucks. Klebermann’s car sounding uncomfortably close behind as she swung away to the right – wondering at the last moment whether it was going to follow, herd her along… But – SS, for Christ’s sake. She wished she had a private line to Jacques, to warn them. Just as one swallow didn’t make a summer, there’d be others, surely. That one might have had work to do with Klebermann – checking records in the gendarmerie, perhaps, or at the factory, or interrogating workers in their houses. Pedalling around the half-circle of drive towards the manor’s west wing – not allowing herself a second look across at the group of Boches out front, some of whom had been moving up on to the steps, clearing the way for Klebermann’s car as it approached. Out of her sight now, anyway, as she rode into the stable-yard, Yvette’s bike juddering over the cobbles. She propped her bike against the porch where she’d left it both times before, went in and knocked on the door. A minute passed: she was about to try again – but thinking they might still have him down at the factory – when he opened the door a little way, and peered out.
‘Justine…’
‘It’s early, I know, but I said I’d—’
‘Yes, yes.’ Glancing back into the hall: whispering then as he let her in, ‘Major Linscheidt’s here – in fact about to leave, but—’
‘Christ…’
Absorbing it, though: and seeing no grounds for panic. Linscheidt, as the Craillots had described him, being distinctly preferable to SS of any size or shape. And she had her own act ready. She pushed the door shut behind her, told le patron in a tone for the man inside to hear, ‘I’ve come early, M’sieur, because in the auberge they start early, there’s always so much to do. But if this is too early—’
‘No, it’s all right. But start in the kitchen, please – it’s a mess in there, you’ll find, but—’
‘Oh, I don’t mind, in the auberge sometimes you wouldn’t believe—’
‘Your new domestique, is this?’
A tall man, in immaculately pressed uniform. Very much as she’d visualized him. Highly polished boots, a patch over his left eye, cropped brown hair greying at the temples. She thought greying: the light wasn’t good though, where he was standing, having just emerged from the petit salon. Boot-heels together, hands behind his back, inclined slightly forward as if for a better view of her. She nodded – ‘Monsieur le Commandant –’ and attempted a smile which out of shyness didn’t quite come off. Glancing instead at Monsieur Henri: ‘I’ll – start in the kitchen, then.’
‘Yes indeed, Major – this is Justine Quérier – whom I’ve engaged as a replacement for Madame Briard.’ A shrugging smile: ‘Who it seems has given me up.’ He pointed: ‘Through there, Justine.’
‘But one moment, if you please.’
Looming closer. He had a limp: she remembered Colette mentioning it. Also an Iron Cross. The eye-patch was black. ‘I would like your replies to one or two questions. In essence – did you know what was happening last night in the factory?’
‘In the factory?’
His accent in French, she’d noticed, wasn’t at all bad.
‘You must have heard the noise, and so forth. What did you think was happening?’
‘The Poste went up in flames, I know that. Also there were explosions – I thought guns, they woke me…’ She asked Monsieur Henri, ‘Was it something in your factory, m’sieur?’
‘Look here.’ Linscheidt tapped his wristwatch. ‘Nearly seven now. Surely the whole village must be talking about it. That’s what I’m after – what they’re saying. D’you live alone – not to have anyone to discuss it with?’
‘Discu
ss what, M’sieur?’
She was the young girl on whom a house had fallen during an air-raid on Rouen. One moment hardly a care in the world, and the next – lost, dazed, injured, homeless. Safe here, though, and clinging to it – a place to live, companionship, even a job: explosions in the night were other people’s business.
‘Well?’
‘I – beg your pardon?’
‘I asked, where do you live?’
‘Oh. At L’Auberge la Couronne, M’sieur. Madame Craillot and I are distantly related, she’s very kindly taken me in and—’
‘She and her husband weren’t discussing the night’s events?’
‘About the fire, yes – we were wondering how that could have started.’
‘What about the explosions?’
‘Well – Monsieur Craillot was saying he’d make enquiries – at the gendarmerie, I think. But I wasn’t really – following… I’m sorry, M’sieur—’
‘All right.’ Swivelling abruptly to Monsieur Henri. ‘Virtual disinterest!’
‘A special case, rather.’ Glancing at her: ‘All right, Justine. Kitchen’s through that door.’ Back to the German. ‘There’s an unfortunate background, Madame Craillot was telling me – an air-raid on Rouen in which she was – hurt. She’s not…’ She guessed he’d be tapping his head. ‘How she happens to be available for this work, no doubt. But as for what you’re trying to establish, Major – I beg you to take my word for it, it would be totally contrary to our people’s interests—’
‘The fact remains, it was planned with the advantage of inside knowledge. That’s quite evident.’
In at the Kill Page 39
