‘Well – for the Italians, perhaps… What were you going to tell me?’
‘That Baker Street’s sending us a replacement for Romeo, in the Lysander tomorrow night. His code-name’s Saul. I’ll tell him to contact you here, shall I?’
‘Why not bring him?’
‘I’d – rather not. As we agreed, Michel – he’s yours. He doesn’t have to know where I’m living, and he and I don’t have to mingle. At least, that’s how I’d like to have it.’
‘I did agree. I know.’ He obviously regretted it. ‘So we’ll try it, anyway. Incidentally, I have the names of two possible recruits as sub-agents – acquaintances of the Dury people. Recruitment has to be our next job, I think.’
‘Do these two have B.C.R.A. connections?’
‘Not as far as I know. No – I’m sure not, that’s just one link Mattan happens to have formed.’
‘Shall I ask Romeo if he knows of them?’
‘Thank you, but’ – the shake of his blond head was immediate, a reflex – ‘I don’t think I’d want to involve him, at this late stage.’
‘You’d like him, Michel. He’s a good man. Really is. He’s been here too long, that’s all, left on his own too long – having had that entire réseau cut out from under him – then finding he was under suspicion, for God’s sake?’
‘Tell him goodbye and good luck for me, if you like.’
‘Right. I will.’
‘But I wonder if it’s really necessary for you to go out there. If he went on his own by bicycle, for instance, he could leave it with that forester – what’s his name – Plunder?’
‘I’d like to see him off. And someone should meet the new man.’
‘With whom you don’t want to associate?’ Slit eyes more open than usual, under raised blond brows… ‘Eh?’
‘I don’t want any close or frequent association, or to be seen around together. Particularly the three of us – as you suggested I should bring him here, for instance. I think Romeo’s point’s a good one.’
‘Sticking to the present point, Jeanne-Marie – Plumier’ll be on hand, surely. He could give our new man the bicycle that Romeo will have used.’ He saw her expression, and shrugged. ‘All right. It would save time and trouble, but – do as you like… Will you go by bicycle?’
‘Starting that way, but he’ll have a gazo and pick me up outside the town. We’ll rest and I dare say have a meal at Ardouval – Plumier’s house, it’s handy to the landing-ground – and Saul can spend the night there and ride in on my bike in the morning. I’ll bring the gazo back, Saul will report to you here – right? – and in the evening I might stop by and collect the bike.’
‘Where do you take the gazo?’
‘Leave it not far from my lodgings. It belongs to a friend of a friend, he doesn’t know what it’s being used for and I don’t have to meet him.’
‘What if you’re stopped when you’re on the road?’
‘I’ll tell them the man it’s licensed to is my boyfriend, he’s lent it to me for a business trip to Neufchatel. I have called on shops there, my cover’ll hold good…’ She smiled at him. ‘It’s all right, Michel, I’ve done these things before, don’t worry… Did you say you were going to stand me a beer?’
‘If there’s nothing else. I suppose there isn’t… Oh – you were listening out last night – well, obviously—’
‘Yes.’ She was on her feet, entirely ready for that beer. ‘The news of Saul was the only item. Nothing more about the drops we’ve asked for. We’ll hear from them when they’re ready, no doubt. Next listening routine’s tomorrow, incidentally – I’ll go on the air when the Lysander’s come and gone, confirm that and take in whatever they’ve got for me. Anything to go out?’
‘I’ll think about it. You’ll be starting early, so – call by this evening?’
‘All right.’
He’d shut his briefcase, searched for the key and found it eventually in a trouser pocket, locked it and pushed it into a floor-level cupboard in which spare bedding was stored. He wasn’t very security-conscious, she thought. All her notes were in that case, and God only knew what else. At least some of the money she’d brought, for one thing… He straightened, kicking the cupboard door shut: ‘Let’s go…’
Outside, the overcast seemed to have become heavier.
The air was still, warm and humid: thunder on the way, she guessed. Good thing too, clear the air…
There were no Germans at any of the pavement tables, today. At the next table was a young priest with a woman who might have been his mother. César pulled a chair out for her: bags of courtesy, when he felt like it … Telling Emil, ‘Two beers, please. After that we’ll think about what we might eat.’
‘Why not ask him what there is – before anything half-decent’s wolfed up?’
Smiling at her… ‘Hungry, are you?’
‘Famished.’
‘I’ll take your advice, then… You know, Angel – you rather grow on a man?’
‘You don’t say. My guess would have been that up to date you’d found me bossy, obstinate, argumentative, insubordinate—’
‘Those qualities certainly, but also—’
Chuckling, turning to see Emil coming back with their half-litres of swill… Rosie thinking, behind her smile, We’re both doing our best, but really we’re oil and water.
* * *
Romeo wasn’t going to use his own gazo, because if anything went wrong it might have been traced to Pigot’s garage. The borrowed one, if anything went wrong, could be reported stolen. He was concerned to leave everything neat and tidy, with no problems of his making for those who were staying behind. The gazo, for instance, was going to stay put for a while, ostensibly having been abandoned by this salesman, Hardy, who’d done a bunk; arrears of rent would mount in the garage ledger, the van would eventually become his in lieu of payment, and he could legitimately apply to re-register it.
‘What matters is Martin Hardy will have vanished. A customer Marc didn’t know any better than any other. No connection, no involvement, one perfectly good gazo.’
‘But I can still use this place when you’re gone?’
‘Sure. Marc’s happy with that. But only you. Just as I’ve kept it to myself. And cautiously, you understand. As to Marc – for a friend in need, you can trust him to Kingdom Come, you know?’
He’d have asked Pigot to look after her, she guessed. She could read that between the lines. Not that she’d been looking for anyone to lean on – and if she did have to, César would naturally be the man she’d turn to. Even though he still seemed to be somewhat less well organized than one might normally expect, for a réseau leader. The briefcase was a prime example – ten seconds with a screwdriver would have it open.
But as he’d admitted, in that reassuring face-to-face they’d had, he did tend to work unconventionally. And the wife in Ireland – well, one still didn’t have to like him, necessarily, but he was genuine all right.
And as to carelessness – pot calling kettle black – any nosey landlady or cleaning woman might find this hidey-hole, given a few minutes on her own. And in point of fact, what could you do…
Quarter-million. She packed it into the false bottom of her sample-case, and locked it. Then tidied herself up in preparation for taking it along to Jacqui. The arrangements with her were all agreed and finalized; and she was taking her the money now – ostensibly perfume samples. Jacqui’d leave her customers in her assistant’s hands for a few minutes, and they’d go upstairs – doing it now instead of later because Clausen was likely to visit her again tonight. She – Rosie – had foreseen this on Wednesday morning, over a hurried breakfast: ‘He’s not leaving town until Friday, is he? He’ll be with you tonight, and – Jacqui dear, you don’t really think he’ll stay away from you on Thursday, do you? His last night?’
Her interest in the matter had less to do with Jacqui’s pleasures than with her own reluctance to meet Clausen again. She didn’t want to push her luck.
/> ‘What I think’ – Jacqui’s big, dark eyes on hers, across the little table – ‘is you’re a witch. You don’t look like one, but—’
‘Better watch out, hadn’t I? What they burnt Jeanne d’Arc for, wasn’t it? But Jacqui – listen… As we’ve agreed, I’ll come about once a week – to get my hair done or discuss the scent business—’
‘And I give you whatever I’ve collected that weekend. I know, don’t worry.’
‘But if anything happened to me – suppose a few weeks passed and you didn’t see me – well, keep up the good work, don’t be put off even if you don’t hear anything from anyone for a while. Eventually someone else will come for a hairdo, and say – listen to this, Jacqui – she’ll say “A friend of mine by the name of Rosalie recommended you very highly.” Got that?’
‘Yes—’
‘Then you can trust her – give her whatever you’d have given me. But only if she’s given you that name – no other. OK?’
‘Rosalie. Your own name, is it?’
‘It’s a password, that’s all.’
‘Well, you look more like a Rosalie than a Jeanne-Marie…’
* * *
Friday. Early breakfast – she got it herself, Ursule had left things ready for her – and she was on the road when the pavements were busy with people on their way to work. Still cloudy: maybe better than yesterday had been, but nothing like good enough.
If it didn’t clear, and the flight had to be called off, Romeo’d go barmy, she thought – swerving into Rue Saint Sever. The traffic consisted almost entirely of bicycles: it gave one a sense of security – invisibility, just one among so many.
Would make things easy for a tail too, of course. Abundant cover…
But no reason there should be one. Despite the scare on Tuesday. No transmissions had been made from this town; the heat might be on – all right, it would be – but they’d still only be making guesses. The pianist was just as likely to be in Amiens or Neufchatel as here in Rouen. To be on your guard was one thing, she reminded herself, shaking with paranoia quite another.
She rode over the Boieldieu bridge and up Rue Grand Pont, past the front of the cathedral and into Rue des Carmes. Thinking about Jacqui – how right she’d been to force the pace. And how the desk-bound warriors in St James’ would be hugging themselves, had they known… Well, they would know, pretty soon: she’d give Romeo a message for them – including the line about Rosalie, which could be of absolutely prime importance.
Some character, she thought, was the lovely Jacqui. And one utterance of hers in their talk on Tuesday night still made her smile when she thought of it – that indignant, I hope you’re not suggesting… After she, Rosie, had made some reference to La Chatte’s promiscuity: saying nothing of the facts that Jacqui was Colonel Walther’s mistress and pretty obviously Clausen’s too, definitely had been Bleicher’s: or that most of her work for La Chatte had consisted of ‘entertaining’ men – which had been La Chatte’s own speciality, Jacqui being called in only at times when there’d been more than she could handle solo.
I hope you’re not suggesting…
Jacqueline Clermont, she thought – as she pedalled along Rue Beauvoisine – into whose hands you’ve now put your life…
It was a fact – beyond recall. And Jacqui might have whispered in Clausen’s ear, last night. No insurance against it, she could have. After all, she’d already got the money…
Place Beauvoisine. She was passing within about a hundred metres of Pigot’s garage, at this point. Romeo would be starting out from there in about half an hour. This arrangement had been at her own suggestion, so as not to risk leading any tail to Pigot’s. Coming directly from Ursule’s – as she’d had to this morning – if they had had any tail on her, that was where the tailing would have started. She’d sworn that she’d never go directly from Ursule’s to Pigot’s.
All uphill, from here on. Best time of day for it, anyway – still cool, under the cloud cap. Most of the traffic here – still nearly all two-wheeled – was coming the other way, downhill.
Halfway up, she took a rest, dismounting and leaning against a fence, looking back down at the sprawl of greyish town and its landmarks, and the sweep of river where it showed. Nothing like as pretty today, with no blue sky, no sun’s rays to gild the ancient spires.
No tail, anyway. No other cyclists hastily dismounting, no vehicle pulling in.
No brown gazo van, either. She checked the time, and got going again – walking, pushing the bike up this steeper bit, mounting again where it levelled. She had the Mark III in her sample-case, and would be using it tonight: she’d intended to in any case, but last evening César had given her a message to send about a special drop of explosives for use by the Resistance group at Dury.
With the B.C.R.A. connections, for instance…
He’d be easier, she hoped, as he got into his stride. This far, she could understand – just – he’d have felt like an outsider, needing to establish his authority as réseau Organizer. Romeo’s refusal to meet him hadn’t helped; her own failure to tell him about those drops hadn’t either. Silly of her: she really hadn’t given it any thought.
There were woods on both sides of the road, here: and she was over the ridge, with a long free-wheeling stretch ahead, when the coffee-coloured gazo overtook her and pulled in ahead. Romeo was out in a flash – bulky, mop of grey hair flying – wrenching the rear doors open and then swinging round – grinning – to grab her bike. ‘Jump in, Angel…’
He’d left the driver’s door open, and a passing lorry swerved only just in time to clear it: an old man at the wheel screaming abuse at her, to her surprise – and Romeo laughing as he climbed in… ‘It’s a wonderful day, my Angel!’
‘Won’t be if you smash this thing up.’
‘You’re right. As always. As always, Angel… Did you have a good night? I didn’t. Not a bloody wink. Here – cigarette?’
* * *
Isneauville. Quincampoix…
‘Coming up for where you tuned in and got the great news, Angel. Only last week – well, ten days… Nothing to send today?’
‘Tonight, after you’ve gone.’
After You’ve Gone. Lew Stone and his orchestra. Wasn’t it Lew Stone’s, that recording? Would have been some really seedy bunch of musicians in that dive with Ben, that place they’d danced. Somewhat groggily, no doubt: but sober, in a joint like that one, you’d have stuck out like sore thumbs.
No denying… And left me crying—
‘I’ll be thinking of you, Angel.’
‘Well, I’d hope so!’
‘Seeing you too, one of these days.’
‘Of course. In Mauritius.’
‘Maybe in Baker Street before that, who knows?’
‘Never do know, do you?’ She touched wood. ‘Have you got friends in London – well, in England?’
‘If they’re around. Otherwise, have to make new ones.’
‘Maybe a bit tough at first, while Baker Street make up their minds about you.’
‘I know. But I’m not worrying.’
‘And now, you’re not – tense, at all?’
Sarcasm. He was fidgeting, humming to himself, drumming his fingers on the wheel, had been doing so all the time. Glancing at her with either a grin or a scowl on his face now and then, for no obvious reason. Simply – getting out… He should have been worried, she thought – on account of the clouds, the doubt about any moonlight getting through. But the question she’d asked about knowing people – she’d thought of giving him her family’s name and address in Buckinghamshire, in case he might need a temporary home of sorts, escape from Baker Street. But her mother might not cope well with him, she’d decided: her uncle, who had the big house – it was a manor, in a hamlet only a few fields away from the small town of Stony Stratford – would have liked him and made him feel at home, but Mama was something else. She lived in the Lodge, had it as hers for her lifetime, had been installed in it with little Rosie when t
hey’d returned to England after Papa’s death. She was a difficult, pernickety sort of woman.
She’d adored Johnny. Probably wouldn’t like Ben Quarry at all. If she didn’t – well, tant pis.
‘What’d you say?’
Romeo repeated, ‘You got the rocket-site brief nicely sewn up, Angel. They’ll be pleased with you.’
She touched wood again. She’d given him the message for S.I.S. about Jacqui; and he already knew all about the field research. But he was right, it was sewn up. She agreed: ‘I could vanish in a puff of smoke, the reports’d still come in – from the field and from Mademoiselle Clermont.’
‘Yeah. I realize. But stay out of puffs of smoke, you hear?’
On top of the world, most of the time, but he was still very nervous. Smoking non-stop, and constantly watching the road behind them.
‘This time tomorrow, Angel—’
‘You’ll be in Baker Street answering their stupid questions.’
‘Yeah. They overdo it, they’ll get stupid answers.’
Rocquemont… St Martin… St Saens…
Then Bellencombre, where they stopped to change the gazo cylinder. Bellencombre was on the edge of the forest area, with only a short distance to be covered now, to Ardouval. Still a grey overcast, which worried her, although Romeo seemed confident that on that score there’d be no problem.
The Plumiers gave them soup and bread for lunch, and more soup with goat-cheese for supper. In between the two meals they’d rested – Rosie had slept – and also heard the BBC’s overseas broadcast, the early one, which had been followed by a statement to the effect that in dry summers many lawns turned brown. That was the right message, and encouraging, although there’d still have to be confirmation – repetition – after the later bulletin.
For an hour or so before supper Rosie and Marcel Plumier played bezique, while Madame Plumier – dark, with a gypsy look about her – knitted, and Romeo sat twitching and occasionally muttering to himself. Getting up, pacing around, sitting down again… Plumier, thickset and bearded, had been needling him, too: after that first broadcast, for instance, he’d told him, ‘They can call it off at five minutes’ notice, remember. All that gibberish tells us is they’re like you – hoping.’
Into the Fire Page 28
