‘Well, I think perhaps there is. But we haven’t time now for – philosophical discussion… We’ve – let’s see – about one and a half hours…’
He’d made two telephone calls by that time, and while they were talking Vidor had responded from Lannilis. Cazalet telling him, ‘I’m almost a stranger to you, monsieur, but you’ll remember my young cousin whom you helped not long ago – a very pretty girl, known to her close friends as “Angel”? You do… Well, she’ll be on the train from Paris – reaching you late afternoon – and I wondered if you could arrange to have someone meet her. Exactly – but – one moment, monsieur – there’s a complication. Another passenger on the same train – not deserving of your hospitality…’
‘Ah. Ah…’
Listening, frowning…
‘Well, I understand. Yes.’ A long intake of breath… ‘Don’t concern yourself – except for the young lady – all right? But listen – I shall make other arrangements, and may I ask you to call me again – so you’ll know what’s arranged – in say one hour?’
Hanging up, he’d buzzed for Toutou and asked him to put a call through to Jacques Delage in Rennes. Or, get his wife, locate him through her. Tell her please drop everything else, just get him…
Delage, he explained to Rosie, was a road-haulier whose wife had a boutique and dealt in Maison Cazalet products. They were both – to coin a phrase – kindred spirits. He went on then, ‘You understand the basis of my thinking, Rosie – first, assuming all the information our German friend has gathered is either in his head or in his briefcase, and second the hope he’ll have the case with him. This is the only weak spot, I think. The remedy for the head is obvious, and if the case is with him, no problem there. I think he will have it – don’t you? It’s a little speculative, but – look, he’s working solo, knows he may have to call for support from either his own crowd or the milice – at Landerneau, perhaps – and he’d need documentation… It is speculative, but—’
‘I think you’re right.’
Toutou had buzzed through then to say the haulier was on the line. After some banter about whether he or his wife wore the perfume, and chat about how the road-haulage business was doing, Pierre had asked him whether he could spare a small team for say half a day. Today, yes. If they could board the Paris-Brest express… Well, at Rennes, presumably. Two men at least. They could return by some other train – late evening, perhaps. He, Cazalet, would defray all expenses. ‘Those specialists of yours, Jacques…’
Still over breakfast – rolls with cherry jam, and – incredibly – real coffee – he’d told her with his mouth full, ‘I’ll ask Toutou to be at Montparnasse, Angel. He’ll collect Jean-Paul and take him along, I imagine.’
She’d spread her hands: ‘Words fail me, Pierre…’
* * *
The train clattered westward, snaking around a wooded hill. The front end was just disappearing into a tunnel: she pulled the window up, met the fat woman’s stare, explained, ‘A tunnel…’ It always stank, in tunnels. The big woman nodded, shrugged her massive shoulders; she’d already consumed an apple and a large piece of sausage.
At the station – Montparnasse – Rosie had boarded the train and bagged this seat, hadn’t been at the window long before she’d seen César coming along the platform. Loosely cut grey linen jacket hanging open, checked shirt, narrow khaki trousers, and a soft leather holdall swinging at his side. He’d seen her too then – checked abruptly and limped to a door at the rear end of this same carriage, and a closer sight of him as he’d appeared inside had confirmed her first impression – that he had no briefcase, and there wouldn’t have been room for it in the bag. She’d thought about it for a moment: meanwhile seeing Toutou and his friend Jean-Paul a little way down towards the barrier, watching her: she guessed they’d have seen her watching César, and nodded to them, gestured in that direction: the one-armed man moved off towards that door, and Toutou smiled, raised a hand discreetly. She’d made her mind up, meanwhile – what to do about the briefcase. She left her coat and canvas grip – supplied by Toutou – on the seat, and disembarked, carefully not looking either César’s way or Toutou’s: guessing César would be watching her, might even follow. But he didn’t – might have checked and seen she’d left her things on the seat. She’d checked a second time that he wasn’t with her – saw Toutou looking after her, and the other one leaving the train to rejoin him – and continued out through the central concourse to the ornate stone portico where there were telephone booths that might almost have dated from the Franco-Prussian War.
Sure enough, the first two she tried didn’t work. But the third did. She joggled for the operator, and gave him Marc Pigot’s number in Rouen.
Ringing, ringing. Taking awful risks with telephones, she was well aware of it. Of Pierre having done so earlier this morning, too…
‘Auto Normande.’
‘Marc – it’s Angel.’
‘Angel…’
Coughing… She could see him: pale, hunched over…
‘I have to be quick… Marc – a great and very urgent favour?’
‘Tell me.’
‘The Café Belle Femme, Place de la Pucelle. Top floor, a room’s let to a man calling himself Michel Rossier. He’s not there – he’s in Paris, so the coast’s clear. You could say he sent you, if you needed to. Anyway – from the doorway, in the far right-hand corner there’s a floor-level cupboard with blankets in it, and under them there should be a briefcase. It has information in it which would be fatal to some of our friends. D’you follow?’
‘I’ll go now.’
‘Take it, and burn everything?’
‘As good as done. You all right?’
‘So far. But Romeo—’
‘I know. Good luck, Angel.’
Toutou and the one-armed man had very conveniently placed themselves at the newspaper kiosk near the barrier. She stopped beside them, bought a copy of L’Illustration and spoke as if she was reading it to herself: ‘Tell Louis I’ve arranged for the removal and destruction of the briefcase from the Café Belle Femme in Rouen. He can count on it, tell him not to worry. I take it you saw him, Jean-Paul – grey jacket, checked shirt?’
‘Like a sore thumb.’
Toutou muttered as she turned away, ‘Good luck, madame.’ A stickler for the formalities, old Toutou. The Cazalet training, no doubt… She went on through the barrier, showing her ticket for the second time. Grateful to Romeo for the gift of a man such as Marc Pigot, in whom one could have such faith. Romeo, Pigot, Vidor: men of the same stamp, she thought. And by contrast – that thing…
César – his head out of the window, searching as she came trudging back along the length of the train – shabby, breathless, with a cream-coloured scarf – a gift from Pierre, not too new – over her head to hide that wound and at least the worst of the facial bruising… César backed in, leaving the door clear, and the train looked and sounded as if it was about to leave, so she used that door herself – hauling herself awkwardly up the two steps, then not glancing at him any more than at his neighbours as she pushed past them. Jean-Paul boarded behind her: he’d left possessions of his own, she saw – a case, and a straw hat – on the seat diagonally across from César’s.
So far, so good. Except for feeling she’d just run five miles and had had no sleep for about a week… Back in her own place, she nodded to the elderly couple who’d got in during her absence, murmured politely, ‘Monsieur-madame…’
‘Ah, so those are yours… Going far, my dear?’
There was a shine of sweat on the fat face. The husband’s was skeletal, grey as putty. Rosie smiled at them both, as she sat down. ‘Too far. And what a price…’
* * *
At Chartres, the train was held up while they inspected tickets and, at random, papers. In Rosie’s case a glance at her return ticket satisfied them. There were armed police on the platform, but no arrests or trouble. The fat woman’s husband had had to open his eyes during the ticket inspection,
and as the train pulled out he actually spoke – a mutter of, ‘Who’d believe this was France?’
‘Hush, André.’ His wife glanced at him, frowning: he stared at Rosie until she looked away, not wanting to involve herself.
* * *
After Vidor had called back – when Pierre had told him it was all fixed, his cousin would have no escort by the time the train reached Landerneau – putting the phone down, he’d told her, ‘He’s highly relieved. Must have problems. But he’s a good man, he won’t let you down.’
‘I know. We had breakfast in his house – me, and the one who was arrested when we got here.’
‘Guillaume.’
‘Did you hear any more?’
‘No. Nothing. Angel, do you understand why we’re going about this as we are? Delage’s men boarding at Rennes, so forth?’
‘I assume they’ll kill him – but where or how—’
‘Leave that to them. No need for you to know it’s happening. Make sure you don’t, in fact. What I mean is – the strategy, you might call it. The German’s got to be eliminated – obviously. It can’t be done here in Paris – equally obvious. It can’t safely be done in the earlier stages of the transit from here to Landerneau, because with such a lengthy period of exposure, allowing for instance for the discovery of the body – not necessarily in the train but on the track even – well, the train could be stopped, everyone searched – including you, lacking papers… On the other hand it has to be done before Landerneau. Another point, by the way, is that by and large the train starts full and empties as it goes along. Rennes, Saint-Brieuc, Morlaix – not exactly empties, but—’
‘These men get on at Rennes, Jean-Paul points him out to them—’
‘—and all you have to do is make sure you wake up for Landerneau.’
She blamed herself for not having guessed, about César. Or at least suspected… But she had – and dismissed the suspicion – despite finding him fairly unpalatable, at times…
You know, Angel, you rather grow on a man?
Bloody cheek…
‘What?’
She’d jumped: had been semi-dozing. The fat woman apologizing: ‘I’m very sorry – hadn’t realized—’
‘It’s all right – I was awake, more or less—’
‘No, I think you’d dropped off, I spoke before I’d realized… But tell me – am I right in thinking you’ve hurt your knees? You rub them so frequently. A fall, perhaps?’
‘Yes. In the Metro. Quite a bad one.’
‘Oh, poor doll!’
* * *
She’d slept through Le Mans, was woken by the clatter and sudden flurry when Fatso dropped a knife with which she’d been slicing a tomato into a half-open stick of bread which she’d already lined with sausage. Rosie picked the knife up for her: it had been under her feet, more or less, and the woman couldn’t have bent down that far – not without rupturing something.
‘Thank you so much. And once again, so sorry—’
‘No reason—’
‘You’re obviously exhausted. Could have cut you, what’s more!’
It certainly could have. It was a carving-knife with a horn handle and six-inch blade, and from the way it sliced that tomato, razor sharp.
* * *
Pierre was going to get the message about Jacqui and the password ‘Rosalie’ out to London – preferably, he’d agreed, by word of mouth. So even if she herself didn’t get through, that operation would go ahead. She thought that if she had the job of organizing it from Baker Street she’d think about using transient agents, routing some to or from their various réseaux via Rouen. Or even one-off visits for no purpose other than to empty the postbox, so to speak; parachute in, exit by Lysander a day or two later.
But of course it would be S.I.S.’s business, not S.O.E.’s.
Might settle for a quieter life, though, after this?
The top brass might decide it for her, anyway. Might decide she’d done her bit, in the field. Especially after Rouen: might wonder about her making it, another time.
She thought, Might well… Leaning forward again to massage her knees. The next stop would be Rennes, where the Delage team were to join the train. At least two men, Pierre had thought, perhaps three or four. Resistance, presumably. But what if he evaded them somehow – if they couldn’t do it and he stayed on her heels, got off with her at Landerneau?
* * *
‘Care for a tomato, dear?’
‘Why yes, thank you…’
It would quench her thirst, as much as anything. And since the old bag had found she’d got more there than she could cram in…
* * *
At Rennes, disembarking passengers were required to show their papers. She watched it happening, from her window, noticed that quite a lot got out and very few got in.
A trio of nuns. Road-hauliers in disguise?
It wasn’t funny, though. Nobody embarked who could possibly fit that bill.
Two German officers got in up front. Then further back, a schoolmistress with a flock of children.
Doors slamming, a whistle blowing. Rolling… The fat woman told her, ‘We disembark at Morlaix. Such a long way, still.’
‘Morlaix…’ Getting her mind to it – from extreme anxiety to total disinterest. With the Delage men still uppermost, for the moment: whether they could have boarded without her having seen them… She didn’t think so. ‘I’ve heard Morlaix’s a charming town. But – excuse me, madame…’ She got up, needing to visit the toilette, which was at the rear end of this compartment. César’s slitted eyes followed her towards him, picked her up again on her way back. Jean-Paul gazed at her too: grey head tilted back, dark eyes questioning. As if she could know the answer, for Christ’s sake…
* * *
She felt ill. Facing the fact that Delage or his people had let old Pierre down. Missed the train, or Delage hadn’t been able to get hold of them, or – whatever… He might have phoned back to Pierre to tell him, even. Not a damn thing Pierre could have done. He’d be sweating his guts out.
So – alternative to hopeless panic – what to do?
Stay on board right through to Brest, then go through the motions of looking for some non-existent individual, pretending to be shocked, horrified, etcetera? You’d end up arrested and back in the hands of someone like Prinz, but at least you wouldn’t have led them to Vidor. Disembarkation at Landerneau, in fact, was out of the question.
Morlaix? Try to use this odd couple as cover: get out with them, then run for it? One would have a chance, at least: if one got away with that much, then live rough in the countryside for a day or two and make it eventually to Lannilis?
Saint-Brieuc came and went. Nobody joined there who could have been any use.
But nobody would. They’d have joined at Rennes, or nowhere.
Face it – you’re on your own…
Next stop, Guingamp. Then Plouaret…
‘Your ticket, mam’selle?’
She showed it – tired, defeated, hopeless… Might just as well act the part; it was what she looked like anyway. He’d called her Miss instead of Mrs, perhaps because it wouldn’t have occurred to him that anyone would have married such a plain, dull-looking creature.
It would be Morlaix, next.
‘My dear…’
Glancing up at her. Like a great barrage balloon…
‘Like to try this cheese?’
It didn’t look bad, and she was being offered it with half a loaf of bread and that knife for a tool. She was quite hungry: the sandwiches from Pierre’s kitchen had been flimsy little things, and there mightn’t be much of a meal on offer tonight.
Wherever the hell one might find oneself, tonight. It wasn’t by any means a cut-and-dried situation, now.
‘Very kind of you…’
‘My pleasure, dear…’ She added, ‘Not far to Morlaix now.’
‘Where you live…’
‘Not at Morlaix, exactly – a short distance… Go on, dear, tuck in!’<
br />
After Morlaix there’d be Landivisiau: then Landerneau.
‘It’s excellent cheese.’
‘I’m glad you like it. My husband only needs a sniff of it to make an absolute pig of himself…’ She nudged him: ‘André – we’ll be there, in just a minute!’
‘Thank God.’
He’d shut his eyes again. His wife meanwhile packing things back into the picnic basket… ‘No, my dear, finish it. Please. We do very well down here, you know – and you’ve still a long way to go, eh? Going where, did you say? André – our bags are under the seat – if you could disturb yourself for just one small moment—’
‘When the train stops, I’ll disturb myself.’
The cheese had been wrapped in some kind of greaseproof paper. The bread had also been wrapped. Rosie had sliced most of the bread, was about to pass the knife back when she saw the woman repacking her basket: having forgotten the knife?
Apparently…
The heap of crumpled paper hid it. If she didn’t catch sight of it, wasn’t reminded… The train was slowing, letting off steam, southern outskirts of Morlaix drawing in on both sides. Rosie’s hands clutching each other tightly on the wrappings… ‘You’ve been extremely generous, madame.’
‘Oh, not in the least… André, will you please—’
* * *
Jean-Paul passed slowly up the aisle, up to the front end, his one hand transferring itself from seat-back to seat-back as he progressed; he glanced down and back at her as he passed. At the end he opened the connecting door and peered for a moment into the next carriage. There was no lavatory at this end, though – if that was what he was looking for. He shut the door and turned around, leaning back against it. There were very few passengers in this part of the train now: those for Brest, she thought, were all up front.
Into the Fire Page 34
