She’d hedged it… ‘I had a long, trek, believe me. Via Paris, as you know. Our lords and masters don’t give much thought to one’s convenience, do they?’
It was a fact, they didn’t. It was primarily a matter of what transport was available at that particular time. When a Lysander came in for Romeo, for instance, it might bring with it one agent destined for Nice and another for Bordeaux. César had agreed with her: ‘They don’t, do they?’ His eyes stayed on hers, though, as if he’d been about to repeat that question – if he had, she’d probably have given him a straight answer – but he must have remembered the convention and decided to contain his curiosity.
She’d assured him – by way of changing the subject – ‘I will talk to Romeo again.’
A nod: ‘Please do.’ Then – as if it had only just occurred to him to ask – ‘Incidentally, what name does he go by, in Rouen?’
‘Heavens. I don’t think I know. I’ve just called him “Romeo”. And when I telephoned—’
‘You could find out, perhaps?’
‘Well, of course. I will… But you can understand him – just… If you see it through his eyes, I mean. He’s certain that he’s only walking free now as a result of having kept himself to himself, and now his feeling is that he’s only got to survive another week or two and he’s – you know, away and clear. He’s been here a long time – and recently all on his own—’
‘Hardly the point, is it? I need his help: advice, information, his views on various things. We need it. All right, he’ll tell you what in his opinion is all the information and background we may need – but damn it, I want to question him, get the scope and kind of detail I want!’
‘Yes. I’ll ask him to think again.’
‘Don’t ask him, tell him. He works for S.O.E., doesn’t he?’
‘Yes. Yes, of course.’ She let it drift, for a moment or two, let him settle again. Glancing round, then: ‘This is a nice room you’ve found, César.’
‘Not bad, is it? And look here – it’s also a much better place for us to meet and talk than any more public venue. Right? But in the course of doing so, one must realize that the proprietor and his staff are bound to arrive at – well, their own conclusions, about our – er – relationship. Much as you may find that – er – distasteful.’ He’d got up: limped to the nearer of the two low windows, stooping there almost double to peer out. Continuing, after a pause: ‘The fact is, it would give us very convenient cover. That’s my point. If you wouldn’t mind – well, not discouraging them in that belief. It would allow you to come here at virtually any time of day or night. In fact – in practical terms, Jeanne-Marie—’
‘I think we have it made, actually.’
‘Huh?’
He’d straightened, turning to face her. What she’d guessed he’d been about to propose would have been more or less par for the course – certainly not unheard of. The unusual aspects were that he’d have got round to it so quickly – almost before they knew each other – and, judging by the run-up – so perfunctorily… She told him, ‘The place I’m living at – where I told you, on Rive Gauche – well, it’s a rooming house, and apparently quite a few tarts live there. The proprietress told me they go out to meet their clients elsewhere, she won’t allow it in the house. So as I’ll be coming here quite a bit – I’d guess it’s common gossip, that address – these people here can think that’s what I come for – if they want to.’
‘Oh. Well.’ Flat tone. ‘Good, that’s—’
‘There is a man in my life, Michel.’
‘Of course.’ A couple of quick blinks… ‘I’d have been amazed if – if there were not.’
She wondered again whether there was a woman in his. Not asking, because (a) she didn’t want to show what he might take as personal interest, (b) one didn’t pry into fellow-agents’ private lives. Thinking also – again – about Buckmaster’s description of him: whether perhaps when crises arose – like getting those fliers out of the safe house just in time, for instance… She nodded: ‘Anyway – it will make things easy.’ Checking the time: ‘Did you say you’d written down the message I’m to send tomorrow?’
‘Yes. I have it here.’ Still slightly pink, he went to a locked briefcase on the bedside table. Murmuring with his back to her: ‘The small fortune you’ve brought me can go in here for the time being. Until I find somewhere more secure… Ah, here it is. Better make sure you can read my scribble – and if there’s anything else we should be telling them, at this point… Angel? Jeanne-Marie?’
She was at the window, crouching where he’d stooped, gazing across the Place de la Pucelle at the Renaissance splendour of l’Hôtel Bourgtheroulde, fouled by its swastika decoration.
‘Filthy bloody thing…’
‘What?’
‘That.’ Pointing. ‘That obscenity. And those disgusting creatures… God, how I loathe them!’
She glanced round. He’d stopped in the middle of the room, a slip of paper in the fingers of one hand and an expression of astonishment on his face. She smiled: ‘Sorry. Letting off steam. Pure self-indulgence.’
* * *
Twenty minutes later she’d told Jacqueline in her flat above the shop, ‘I just nearly had a pass made at me.’
‘Nearly?’ Jacqui smiled at her across the room, pouring two glasses of Pernod. She had cognac there as well. ‘One a minute, I’d have guessed. Was it a Frenchman?’
‘Oh, yes—’
‘Well – as long as he’s rich. Which would make him a collaborateur, of course… Here you are now, Jeanne-Marie. To you and me, let’s be great friends, huh?’
‘I’d like that.’
Jacqui had perched herself on the fat arm of a duck-egg blue sofa. ‘Sit, if you like. I do whenever possible. Worn-out feet are an occupational disease, for hairdressers. But for you too, I suppose, tramping around. No, please don’t look at this furniture, it’s only what I could scratch together… Tell me about your Frenchman?’
‘He’s not my Frenchman. And what I’d sooner tell you about are these perfumes.’ Gazing at the dark girl, half-smiling: then frowning, as if on a double-take: ‘When you asked was it a Frenchman – you’re implying it might have been a German?’
‘That would be the obvious alternative, surely. Some of them are really quite nice – if you give them half a chance.’ Rosie sat down. ‘I’d rather not. I dare say there are some decent ones, there must be, but—’
‘Listen. You talked about Hollywood. If I ever did go there, d’you think I’d take a janitor for my lover? Oh, it’s a silly question – illustrative, that’s all. You go for a man who can look after you – don’t you? A winner – right?’
‘The man friend you mentioned—’
‘Certainly. Good guess. And I’ll tell you, if ever there was a winner—’
‘You don’t really think the Boches are going to win?’
‘They are. I know it!’
Rosie looked down at her sample-case, conscious of having come further in about three minutes flat than she’d have expected to in a week – even a month. Aware also that she was walking on eggshells: but simultaneously driven to capitalize on this, not waste it… She heard herself saying, ‘We should be talking about scent.’ Looking up at her. ‘Safer subject?’
‘How, safer?’
‘Well. At the moment, you’re by far my best prospect not only as a customer but as an entrée to the trade here. I’ve rather left it, in the hope you’d be my starting point. Apart from selling some scent for my cousin and making some money, we’d get on rather well, I’d thought. But I don’t want to sit and hear about the Germans winning, Jacqui.’
‘And I wouldn’t want to think of them not winning. If it turned out that way, I’d be done for.’
‘Why? How d’you mean?’
‘Well, I’ll tell you. Then you can leave, if you like, shake the dust from those attractively small feet. I’d sooner you didn’t, I would like to be friends, but – if that’s how it takes you… What I was
saying – well, I’m fully conscious of being surrounded by people who – frankly, who despise me. That’s simply a fact of life – as of this moment, and in this place. So don’t think that your disapproval comes as a surprise to me. A disappointment, yes.’
‘All right.’ She shrugged. ‘None of my business, let’s say.’
‘Because you want to sell your damn scent, you say that.’ A nod. ‘OK. If there’s one I specially like, I’ll give you an order. As long as you don’t mind the fact it’ll be paid for by a German.’ She swivelled on the sofa’s arm, slid down inside it. ‘Let’s see what you have. Might be easier if you sit here, closer?’
‘All right.’ She hadn’t moved yet, though. ‘Only—’
‘Don’t want to sit closer?’
‘I’m sorry that I’ve offended you, that’s all. Certainly I’d like to sell some scent – but not even for a huge order—’
‘You won’t get that, don’t worry!’
‘I was thinking of your stocking them – sale or return, cost you nothing. But – Jacqui, d’you really want the Boches to win? I can imagine no prospect more horrible!’
‘Less want than – it’s necessary to my survival, to put it bluntly. But then again, I happen to be rather well informed, and what I’ve heard is extremely reassuring.’
‘From reading’ – Rosie had noticed a heap of newspapers and magazines – ‘Je Suis Partout, La Gerbe, L’Illustration – all that bullshit about Hitler’s “Secret Weapons”?’
‘Well, Jeanne-Marie.’ Lazy, cat-like stare… ‘How odd that you should mention that. Perhaps you’re more astute than you realize. Not for calling it by that vulgar word – in fact very far from it…’
‘Frankly, I don’t think it’s particularly astute to go on about secret weapons when we have solid facts such as the English and Yanks being in Sicily and obviously soon will be in Italy – having driven the Boches and the Italians out of Africa – and the Russians making mincemeat of them. Berlin and other cities being pounded from the air day and night—’
‘You realize this is subversive talk?’
‘Are you going to report me?’
‘Oh.’ A smile… ‘Perhaps I should, but on the whole—’
‘Whisper it across a pillow?’
The smile had vanished. ‘One can share a man’s bed without—’
‘—sharing his thoughts, or letting him into yours?’
A frown… ‘You’re less sophisticated than I’d thought you were, Jeanne-Marie.’
‘Quite possible. But I’m not talking about me. If that sounded like a sneer, I’m sorry – I’m thinking as a friend… At least, a would-be friend. Look – all right, I’m prejudiced. But I take your word for it, yours is a good one. But you said yourself – about people despising you and you’d be done for. You think it’ll turn out right for you – but whatever they tell you or he tells you – well, he would, he’s not likely to indulge in “subversive talk”, is he? – but there’s a lot of talk around – in Paris, anyway – of an invasion here soon.’
‘They won’t invade. They won’t be able to.’
‘Are we back to the mythical “Secret Weapons”?’
‘It’s no myth, my dear.’ Jacqui reached for Rosie’s near-empty glass. ‘Believe me. I know it’s not.’
* * *
They’d told her in her sessions with S.I.S., ‘If you avoid a subject too consistently, it gets to be obvious you’re avoiding it. Where it would come in naturally, bring it in. And another maxim: When it’s something you’d disapprove of – you in your role as Jeanne-Marie Lefèvre, that is – don’t be afraid to dig your heels in. That way you’re real – huh?’
She thought she’d followed both those precepts closely enough, in that opening round with Jacqueline.
Romeo’s deep voice on her left: ‘It’s your mouth. That’s what it is.’
‘What?’
A leap in space and time: from the apartment in Rue de Fontenelle to this gazo bumbling northeastward, by this time about halfway between Isneauville and Quincampoix. A straight, rather narrow road: locked in her thoughts, she’d been only vaguely aware of a long stream of military vehicles thumping past them, heading towards Rouen, and Romeo deferentially hugging the right side of the road to give them room.
He’d muttered once, ‘I don’t ask for trouble.’
The column had passed now anyway.
‘What did you say?’
‘That I’ve discovered the key to a problem that’s been bothering me. What gives you your singular attractiveness.’
‘I’m happy for you that you’ve resolved it.’ She laughed, delving for her cigarettes. ‘Want one of these?’
‘Well – why not… They’re under-the-counter, I imagine? Mine are. At a price, I can get you all you want… Turning’s here, we’ll go left – rather than all the way to Quincampoix. Come back down there afterwards – sort of a circle, save a mile or two.’
‘You know your way about, evidently.’
‘Visiting farms, you get to know all the small lanes. What I was saying – that mouth of yours. It gives a man ideas.’
‘That what does it?’
‘Definitely. Oh, don’t worry, I’m not confusing myself with the other Romeo!’
‘Romantically – if that’s the word – I’m rather tied up already, as it happens.’
* * *
Shades of César. One should wear a badge, perhaps. Certified member of the No Thank You Club… He’d surprised her, though. She put a match to her cigarette – as he slowed for the turn, giving a cyclist time to get past it, coming this way… Exhaling smoke and remembering Ben telling her – it had been at the bar in the Wellington, if she could trust that blurred snapshot in her memory – ‘You’re the most compulsively attractive sheila it has ever been my privilege to get pissed with.’
She’d laughed. ‘You’re pissed, all right!’
‘True. No denying it. But listen – it’s your mouth. Looks like it can’t wait to start kissing. No, this isn’t a come-on, I’m simply telling you…’
* * *
Romeo shifted gear, starting the climb towards the woods. ‘I was stating a fact, Angel, that was all. It’s been a puzzle to me. You’re not what I’d call conventionally beautiful, but—’
‘Compliments are always welcome.’
‘The best word for it might be “compulsive”.’
‘Might be codswallop, too.’ Out of the corner of her eye she was aware of him looking at her. Watching for a reaction, no doubt. The old grafter… She turned away, drawing deeply on her cigarette.
Amazing, though. Even the same words he’d used.
Similarly limited vocabulary?
* * *
Jacqueline had told her after their third Pernod – she’d changed the money for her, first holding the fifty-thousand note against the light to check that it was genuine – ‘You could snare one of your own, you know. I could introduce you to one who’d – no, don’t shake your head, he’s very charming, comes in here quite often—’
‘For a wash and set?’
‘Silly. Actually, he’s been away – weeks now. And I’m not sure I would let you have him, on second thoughts—’
‘I wouldn’t deprive you, Jacqui.’
She’d told her by that time – Jacqui had – that her German lover was a colonel of engineers, a very intelligent, attractive man who happened to be in an extremely important and influential position, had his own operational headquarters in Amiens and a luxurious apartment nearby.
‘Where you spend your weekends.’
‘Except when he’s in Berlin. He has to attend conferences there from time to time.’
‘Why not live there – in Amiens? Why here, and—’
‘Because he says this is more discreet. Also during the week he’s working flat-out, and moving around a lot. Actually he’s busy at weekends too, sometimes.’
‘People here know about your Amiens trips, don’t they? That pseudo-blonde, heavyweight cus
tomer, for instance.’
‘That old bag.’ Jacqui had sniffed. ‘Butter wouldn’t melt, you might think. The hell it wouldn’t… With her and her kind it’s jealousy, nothing else. Others – well, when I go out with Hans in Amiens – to a restaurant, for instance – or here for that matter, even on my own – I get that staring routine – you know?’
‘Hostile?’
She’d nodded. ‘From total strangers. Of course, I ignore it. Try to, anyway. Try not to think about it either. Only now and then – in the night, you know?’
‘Yes – I do.’
‘Well – I should ignore it, because in the long run – she who laughs last—’
‘Ever get threats?’
‘Since you mention it. And for my business I have to be in the phone book, unfortunately. It’s – not pleasant, sometimes… But it is good to have someone like you to talk with, Jeanne-Marie.’
Her story was that she hadn’t been looking for any man, either French or German: it had simply happened…
‘He’s married, of course. And I swear to you, I did not – initiate it. But what the hell –’ smiling, tossing her hair back – ‘he’s nuts about me, he’s also rich, he has a big structural-engineering business in Germany – and just think how much structural engineering there’ll be when this is over – huh? – with all the bombing that’s going on? It makes him laugh out loud sometimes, just to think about it! And he’s nice. All right, you hate Germans, but if you met him, Jeanne-Marie…’
* * *
She strung her aerial wire over branches, clipped the power-supply to the gazo’s 6-volt battery, and settled down in the ditch with the transmitter in her lap and the headphones on. Romeo meanwhile was leaning back against the offside of the van, smoking, with a long view both ways, up and down the lane.
She got the go-ahead from Sevenoaks, and started rippling out the dots and dashes. It was quite a long transmission and she played it fast.
Into the Fire Page 22
