It took a moment to sink in…
Then: Why not?
Even at the cost of a broken neck. Cost – or prize… And – the odds would be against one getting far or being free for long, but possibly long enough to get to the Belle Femme, warn César to burn those notes.
And the message for S.I.S. about contacting Jacqui?
Probably not. Because the odds were that César would be bagged too, soon enough. Therefore (a) no point, (b) extreme danger for Jacqui. But – think about it…
Erdos muttered, ‘Heading for Gare Rive Gauche, I’d guess.’
‘No talking!’
Via the Pont Pierre Corneille, presumably. It was right on top of the station, which was just across the river there. They could have driven straight down and over the Jeanne d’Arc bridge but the driver was obviously making for the Corneille. Swinging left into Rue aux Ours: he’d turn right near the cathedral, get down to the river there and left along the Quai Corneille.
The big one was wearing a Luger, she remembered.
Better than Rue de Saussaies or Avenue Foch, though. Pliers, for instance…
Thank God for Pascal Erdos, she thought – for even the fleeting ghost of a chance… She was watching him out of the corner of her eye as the driver braked – slowing for this corner… There was a troop-transport thing parked right on it, and he was having to swing out… She glanced directly at Erdos, then – seeing the chance or the hope of one at the same moment as his hand closed on her arm. His other hand creeping to the door-handle. For a moment her brain flared, telling her, You’re mad, in the state you’re in already –
She part threw herself out after him, was also part dragged out by him. He’d misjudged it – sheer bad luck, hit a lamppost as he dived – in so doing softening her landing – slightly, she cannoned into him and then fell, spinning, hitting the paving and rolling, arms wrapped round her damaged head to protect it but nothing she could do to protect her knees: in the next second she’d fetched up with literally stunning violence against an abutment of the cathedral’s wall. Erdos was on his knees out near the kerb, stooped forward like a Muslim at prayer. She yelled – in surprise at being alive – ‘You all right?’ Brakes squealing, there’d been shouts, a car’s horn blowing repeatedly and now solidly, continuous – but other traffic still passing – until now there had been. Erdos bawled at her ‘Go on! Go!’ Two priests were staring open-mouthed at her, and some children too, jumping up and down and shrieking, pointing – but he had more than that round him, a small crowd gathering. She was half-running, half-hobbling – a wave to the children, a goodbye wave that said, Please, don’t follow: instinct telling her that if they thought she was all right they’d lose interest, transfer it to the naked monk – then she was round the southeast corner of the cathedral, slowing to a limping walk so as to be less conspicuous.
Still was, though. Two young girls with bicycles – on the pavement, pushing them, talking and laughing – one glanced at her, did a double-take, muttered to her friend and they both stared – open-mouthed, speechless. She must look like something really special, she realized. Horns were still blaring at each other back there – beyond, around the two corners she’d somehow managed to put between herself and them: she could imagine the staff-car having to back out of that short-cut alleyway into the mainstream of traffic, and Prinz’s outsize assistant going berserk – he’d have got Erdos back in the car by this time, she guessed. Poor man – his incapacity and easy recapture would have delayed any pursuit of her, she guessed.
‘Hey, hello there!’
Female voice: a straggle of women had been passing, several of them giving her hard looks, but—
She saw her, then, recognized her – the tart who’d told her at Ursule’s that the hot water had run out. In a tight, short, hip-hugging, low-cut pink dress, skirt with a flouncy hem swirling around her skinny knees. Artificially auburn hair, and all that make-up… Rosie stopped, with a vague thought of, Any port in a storm – of highly dubious benefit, admittedly, but – someone one knew – after a fashion…
‘Hey – you’ve been in the wars!’
‘Yes – I have, I—’
‘Baby, are you showing!’
Her blouse lacked some buttons and seemed to have shrunk on her; and with no bra, her nipples would be visible through the thin material.
‘Jeanne-Marie – right? I asked Ursule about you. You sell perfume, don’t you… Some bastard roughed you up, that it?’
‘Yes.’ Glancing back, towards the corner. Back at this poule… ‘Look – I suppose you wouldn’t – do me a favour and—’
‘Why wouldn’t I? Where d’you want to get?’ She took her arm. ‘Long way back, mind… I could call my friend – if he’s there he might—’
‘Walk with me to Place de la Pucelle?’
‘Oh, that’s no distance. Sure, why not… Hey, looky here—’
A bright green scarf, chiffon, she’d had it over her arm, for some reason. She looped it over Rosie’s head – round her neck, with the ends hanging loose in front. It made for a great improvement… ‘My God – side of your head here, what’s—’
‘I’ll get it seen to, don’t worry. Thanks for this, you’re immensely kind, I’m sorry, I don’t know your name?’
Arm in arm: like sisters… Thinking it out: around the top corner there and across the cathedral square, into Gros Horloge. The girl was telling her that she could call her, ‘Misty’. She reeked of some scent which by Pierre Cazalet’s standards might have been classified as disinfectant… ‘—short for Mistinguette, see. Like it? Sort of sexy but it’s got class too, know what I mean? Hey, you are hurting bad, aren’t you!’
‘My knees mostly. It’s not as bad as it was, anyway. You’re very kind, Misty.’
‘Think you’re one of us, won’t they?’ She flashed a smile at a policeman on duty in the Place. ‘Nice boy, that. Just got married, though, the silly fucker… Tell me what happened?’
‘I’d sooner forget it, Misty.’
‘German?’
‘Oh-yes…’
‘Yeah. They can be sods – without trying, even. Can be nice too, mind … But you’re not on the game, are you? Shit that feller’ll know you next time he sees you. Hold up, dear—’
‘Sorry. Damn knees…’ They felt they might seize-up solid at any moment: and the cobbles in Gros Horloge didn’t help much. She was trying to keep to the middle, the narrow smooth strip of the rainwater channel, but there were a lot of other pedestrians and cyclists, you couldn’t all the time… ‘This is taking you miles out of your way, Misty.’
‘Never mind. Known the bugger long, have you?’
‘What?’ Catching on, then… ‘No. Not long at all.’
‘I’d steer clear, if I was you.’
‘Yes.’ Rosie laughed, glancing at her. ‘I will. If I can.’
Left into Rue la Vicomte. Reasonably smooth pavement, on this side. Misty asked her, ‘Is it the Belle Femme we’re making for?’
‘Yes.’ From the corner, getting over to the other side – cobbles again. Misty informing her that this was Margot’s territory… ‘The blonde one, you must’ve seen us together?’ Rosie agreed, yes, of course she had… Thinking of Pascal Erdos – what they’d do to him now, and what he’d done for her: then facing the huge, immediately vital question: whether César would still be here.
Might well not be. Might be on his way to the Pyrenees – or out in the sticks somewhere, gone to ground…
Gaston, the younger son, saw them coming. He was among the pavement tables with a napkin over his arm, waiting for custom. Only two tables were occupied at the moment, Rosie saw.
‘Gaston…’
‘Madame.’ He’d taken in her roughed-up state: was looking now at Misty, seemed to know her too. ‘Mam’selle, I regret—’
‘I know, dear. Maman doesn’t like us, does she? Reckons I might eat you up – you and your brother…’ Facing Rosie, holding her arms: ‘You going to be all right now?’
/> She nodded. ‘Misty, thank you very much… Oh, your scarf—’
‘Give it back at Ursule’s, no hurry. Someone here who’ll look after you, though, is there?’
She’d met Gaston’s eye, and he’d nodded, with a slight movement of his head towards the café’s upper regions. Relief was enormous: she kissed Misty’s cheek. ‘Yes, there is. And thanks a million.’
‘I’ll be off, then…’
Gaston asked her – leading her inside, to the stairs – ‘Were you involved in an accident, madame?’
‘Yes. But I’ll be all right… Monsieur Rossier’s in, is he?’
‘Oh, yes. Madame, if I might assist—’
‘No – thank you. You go on, tell him I’m here.’ She was hauling herself up one stair at a time, using the banisters. Gaston ran up ahead of her. Rosie telling herself, No rush now. Thank God he hung on…
‘What is it Gaston?’
‘Believe it or not, monsieur – Madame Lefèvre!’
‘What? You mean it?’
She was at the top, then: he came bounding to the door: arms outstretched… ‘Angel!’ Gaston, smiling, pulled it shut behind her. She told him, ‘I must sit down…’
‘Are you hurt? Oh, my God, you are!’
‘Yes. But don’t panic. Not all that bad. Looks worse than it really is, I’m sure.’ He was helping her: she subsided into the deepest of the chairs. ‘Michel, I’ve a lot to tell you, and not much time. Did you hear what happened at the landing-field?’
‘That there was an ambush and you’d got away. That was four days ago – I’ve been going crazy. Where’ve you been, what – Angel, you look terrible!’
He was more human, she thought, than she’d realized. He’d seemed a cold fish, until now… ‘Is today Tuesday?’
‘Wednesday. Hell, don’t you even—’
‘I just wasn’t sure. Lost a day, somewhere. But listen – tell you this quickly, then – well, just listen. It’s worse than you imagine, much worse. No, not talking about my injuries – of our situation generally – yours as much as mine. Michel – I didn’t get away – whoever told you that was misinformed or lying. I’ve been in the Palais de Justice here – Gestapo, I was tortured—’
‘My God—’
‘I didn’t tell them anything. Except one thing, I admitted the radio transmissions were for arms drops. I didn’t tell them where, or any names – so those notes I gave you, please burn them, that’s the most important thing. They know about you, you see—’
‘What about me?’
‘Not from anything I said, I promise you. This Gestapo man – Prinz, I don’t know his rank – told me they knew enough that if I lied he’d catch me out, and for instance they knew you were my Organizer, code-name César and nom-de-plume Michel Rossier. He said “I’ll have Rossier in here, before much longer”. So maybe he doesn’t know where you are or what you look like – they’ve just taken over from the S.D., incidentally, there seems to be some element of confusion—’
‘So – go on?’
‘What he wanted from me most was about the drops. To whom, where and when. So the lists I made on your insistence, Michel—’
‘I’ll destroy them. As you say, burn them. Right away. What else?’
‘Well, I’m a dead duck, obviously. I’d imagine you are too – or would be if you stayed. But they’ve got my radio – and even if I still had it I doubt it’d be safe to use it. They must be reading our signals – must be!’
‘If they were, wouldn’t they have the names and locations, as on your lists?’
‘Yes. Yes – of course…’ He was right – she thought. Struggling to keep herself thinking straight… ‘They would, wouldn’t they… So it must be Baker Street’s stuff they’re reading. The Lysander R/V, for instance – and the interceptions during the previous réseau’s time – all blamed on poor old Romeo—’
‘My own thinking’s been – well, rather similar, in a way – that we might have a traitor in Baker Street. There was a Frenchwoman they sent over – you may have heard of her?’
‘La Chatte. Behind bars now.’
‘Exactly. But having tried once – eh?’
‘Possible, I suppose. Anyway – as far as you and I are concerned, here and now – no radio communication, no question of calling for another Lysander pickup – which’d be out anyway, in the circumstances—’
‘So?’
She nodded. ‘The way I came in, this time – by sea. Train to Paris, then the Brest express – tomorrow morning. I must get to Ursule’s first, mind – to get some clothes. Crazy, really – talking about Paris and Brittany, mightn’t even get as far as Rive Gauche. But I’ll need money, please. I’ve no papers of any sort, of course…’ Staring at him, shrugging. ‘Hopeless, isn’t it?’
‘I wouldn’t say so, Angel. A lot of us have travelled right across France and back without being asked to show papers… Where, though, and how will you make contact?’
‘I know how. Don’t worry.’ She nodded. ‘From Paris I can make a phone call to say I’m coming—’
‘Perhaps say we are coming. I could travel with you?’
‘Yes. Except – well, as I just said – I might not get half a mile from here. Might you not have a better chance using your own contacts – ones you used when you took the airmen from Lyon?’
‘I don’t see why it should be better.’
Gazing at him: getting it together: at least, trying to…
‘Because – well, they know exactly what I look like, and that I’ll be on the run. You don’t want to be seen even looking at me. I may not get far anyway – as I say. I only came here to tell you what’s happened and – to burn those notes. But – maybe I’ll get lucky… Well, look – if this is what you want – suppose I get the first Paris train in the morning – the milk train. You come on a later one, we’ll both get on the mid-morning express to Brest. Goes through – oh, Le Mans – and Rennes. And St Brieuc. And – if you were just to keep me in sight, get off where I do—’
‘Where’ll that be?’
‘You don’t need to know – do you? What’s more, there’d be no point – you couldn’t make it on your own, those boys wouldn’t take you on trust – I mean if I’d fallen by the wayside…’
‘Which boys are you talking about?’
‘Men. This escape réseau on the Breton coast. But – Michel, the Gestapo and all the others too will be looking for me, and they know you by name… Right? Well – at least one of us doesn’t have to know – isn’t that good sense?’
‘You think if I was caught and they put the screws on me—’
‘It’s possible. Believe me. I’ve had the screws on me, they had me screaming. I had the suicide pill but I couldn’t get at it; if I could have I’d have taken it without a moment’s hesitation. I wouldn’t be here now. I’m not going to talk about what they did to me – and threatened – but I learnt one thing – no matter what, I couldn’t give names – simply couldn’t – I hate to know them even—’
‘All right – but steady on, you’re—’
‘Shouting. Sorry… It’s been – very, very bad, Michel.’
‘Your head – over that ear—’
On his feet, stooping over her, peering at it… ‘What did this?’
‘—at the ambush – I was hit with a pistol-barrel. They’d shot Romeo – I saw that happen—’
‘Shot all except you, I heard, and you’d made a bolt for it, got away. So I’ve been waiting, hoping—’
‘From whom did you hear that I’d got away?’
‘Mattan. I tried the Plumier house but a German answered… Angel, we must bathe this wound. I have some iodine, too.’
‘All right.’ She let her eyes close. ‘Thank you.’
‘How on earth did you escape from the Palais de Justice?’
‘They were sending me to Paris. To Avenue Foch or – I don’t know. They put me in a cell with an RF Section agent, and – cutting it short, it was all his doing. This car was taking
us to the station, they didn’t bother putting handcuffs on us, and when it slowed at an awkward corner he jumped out and pulled me with him. I got away without much trouble but I think he’d hurt himself, they’d have recaptured him.’
‘Must hand it to you, Angel—’
‘Those papers – all the stuff I gave you—’
A nod. ‘I’ll burn it all. Other notes too. Will you stay here tonight?’
‘No. At Ursule’s. I said, I must get some clothes – but I’ll be close to the station too, for an early start, take the first train that’s going – and I’ll telephone, say we’re coming—’
‘We’ll meet at the Gare Montparnasse at what time?’
‘Not meet – just both of us be there… The Brest train leaves at eleven-twenty or eleven-thirty. Say be there about eleven. But don’t come near, or speak – they might be watching me, you know? You could sit behind me – in one of the open carriages, if I’m near the front of it—’
‘And I’m not allowed to know where we’ll be getting out – eh?’
‘I thought I’d explained—’
‘Well, you did, but—’
‘Buy a ticket to Brest, and get out when I do. Get a return ticket, d’you think – for camouflage? Just going for a day or two, to see some relative?’
‘What about you?’
‘As it happens I do have a story that would fit. Of course I’ve no papers to back it up now, but—’
‘What if you were arrested?’
‘Change trains, go your own way. The more distance you put between yourself and me, the better chance you’d have!’
‘I suppose’ – he got up, stretching – ‘you have a point. But—’
‘Also – as I said – on your own, these other people wouldn’t take a chance on you. A stranger just turning up – well, you told me that when you took those escapers from Lyon you had a job getting them to accept you – wherever that was?’
‘Yes. Yes, all right.’ Glancing at her as he limped to the nearer window… ‘You’re a tougher nut than you look, Angel. In fact you’re – astonishing.’ He was stooping, looking out. ‘Light’s going. We’d better see to that head-wound – if you want to get over to Rive Gauche before curfew.’ Turning back: ‘How’ll you get there? Your bike’s not here – no, obviously—’
Into the Fire Page 32
