‘Did you recognize me?’
‘Not until you spoke.’
‘Well, then, no one else is likely to, either.’
‘But why are you here?’
‘I am working for the Resistance.’
‘The Resistance?’
‘You have not heard of it?’
‘Well, there are rumours.’
‘Which are based on the truth.’
‘There is no Resistance here in Paris.’
Liane smiled. ‘We are going to change that.’
Achille scratched his head. ‘It will be very dangerous.’
‘Are you afraid? You will be working with me. If you work with me, I will be your mistress in fact as well as fiction. Would you not like that?’
He licked his lips. ‘You would live here, with me?’
‘Yes. Starting today. Now, there are people I need to meet.’
Achille had remained standing by the door. Now he came across the room to stand beside her. He took off her beret and ran his hands over her hair and then down to her neck. ‘Do you know how I have dreamed of this?’
‘I have seen it in your eyes often enough. I will be good, I promise you. But I am here to work, for France. And so must you. Is Laurent still around?’
‘Oh, yes. He was in here yesterday.’
‘You mean he has not been arrested?’
‘Well, the Germans have not yet caught up with him, and the police are ignoring him for the moment.’
‘Get word to him that I wish to see him.’
‘But you will be my woman.’
‘Entirely. I wish him to work for me.’
‘You have papers?’ Suddenly he was anxious.
‘I have papers. How do you think I got here? My name is Sandrine Bouchard. I wish Laurent to forge papers for others.’
‘What others?’
‘I will tell him as I need them. But he must start work now, making them up, leaving only the descriptions and the place for the photographs blank for the time being.’
‘I will bring him to see you.’
‘Next, I wish the use of a house.’
‘But you will live here.’
‘Yes, I will. But I need the house for friends of mine who from time to time may visit Paris. The house must be safe from investigation by the Germans.’
Achille considered, then snapped his fingers. ‘Madame Constance.’
‘You mean she is also still in business?’
‘Oh, yes. She now has the best house in Paris. Because it has been taken over by the Germans.’
‘And that is safe?’
‘Of course. Don’t you see? The Germans have given her a licence, under which she accepts only their officers. They will never search her place.’
‘And you think she will conceal my friends under their very noses?’
Achille shrugged. ‘That you will have to find out.’
‘Then give me her address.’
‘I will do this. But first, you will come upstairs.’ His hands were coursing over her shoulders and down to her breasts. ‘I am on fire.’
*
He was an earthy man, and so very adoring. But he also took a very long time to get a sufficient erection. Liane supposed this was because he was really very nervous, anxious at once to possess and to please. His hands roamed over her body, from her shoulders to her feet. He made her lie on her stomach so that he could caress and squeeze her buttocks, but he also wanted to play with her toes and stroke her calves. Then he wanted to kiss her all over, suck her nipples, put his head between her legs. Actually, she enjoyed it, although she would have preferred him to be cleanshaven. And at last he made it, and collapsed panting beside her. ‘You are magnificent,’ he said.
As she had not actually done anything, she considered this might be the easiest part of her mission. ‘So were you,’ she said, and got up.
‘Where are you going?’ he asked in alarm.
‘I’m going to unpack.’ She opened her rucksack, took out the single change of underclothes she had with her, then began removing the various dismantled pieces of equipment. He sat up to watch her. ‘That is a gun.’
‘It is a Luger automatic pistol.’
He scratched his head. ‘And what are those?’
‘When I have assembled them, it will be a radio receiver.’
‘A radio?’ His voice was high. ‘You cannot have a radio. It is against the law.’
‘Achille, my being here at all is against the law. Do you wish me to leave?’
He gazed at her naked body. ‘No, I do not wish you to leave. But why do we need a radio?’
‘It is necessary so that we can be told when my friends are to be expected. The calls will be made either at six in the morning or six in the evening. I will usually be here to take them, but I will teach you how to use it.’
‘Will the Germans not be able to trace such calls?’
‘Given enough time, perhaps. But it is simply a receiver, not a transmitter, and they will find that very difficult to trace. Now, the calls will always be very brief and in code.’
‘What is this code?’
‘I will teach you that as well. Enough of it, anyway.’ She looked at her watch. ‘It is five o’clock. What time does the bar get busy?’
‘Half past six, maybe.’
‘Then you have the time to get dressed and go out and find Laurent. I wish to see him tonight.’
‘And Madame Constance?’
‘I will attend to her tomorrow.’
*
The house was set back from the street, in a large unkempt garden. It was four-square and four-storeyed, with shuttered windows, and sadly needed a coat of paint, but then, so did most of the houses in Paris. The wrought-iron double gate was unlocked; Liane pushed it open and went in.
The house actually looked deserted as she walked up the path to the front steps, but as it was eleven in the morning it was obviously not working hours. She rang the bell, and waited for several minutes, until she heard shuffling steps and a moment later the door swung in to reveal a middle-aged woman in a dressing gown. As she lacked either looks or chic Liane reckoned she was a maid. ‘We are not open,’ she said, and then realized she was addressing a woman. ‘We do not need anyone.’
‘I think Madame Constance should be the judge of that,’ Liane said. ‘I wish to see her. Now.’ The sudden authority in her voice made the woman step backwards, and Liane stepped inside and closed the door behind her. The hall was gloomy after the bright sunlight, but she could tell at a glance that it was tastefully furnished, and could be well lit; there was a crystal chandelier, filled with electric light bulbs. On the right, large double doors, presently closed, led to an obvious reception room. On the left there was another, smaller door, and in front of her there rose a wide staircase with a reverse bend halfway up. Beyond the staircase the hall continued for some distance, no doubt to the pantry and kitchen. ‘Where do I go?’
‘Madame!’ the woman called. ‘Madame! This woman —’
‘Thank you, Marguerite,’ a voice said. Liane looked at the stairs, and the woman descending them. She was quite tall, and strongly built, and had handsome, forceful features and a mass of obviously dyed red hair. She also wore a dressing gown, made of silk as opposed to the maid’s cotton, and came down the stairs slowly and gracefully. But clearly she liked what saw. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘I have not seen you before.’
‘I would like to speak with you. In private.’
‘Come into the office.’ She reached the floor and indicated the small door. Liane went towards it. ‘It is open,’ Madame Constance said, and followed her into the room, where there was, predictably, a desk and two comfortable chairs. Constance seated herself behind the desk. ‘You are from Paris?’
‘Once upon a time.’
‘And now you are back. Your name?’
‘Sandrine Bouchard.’
Constance gazed at her for several moments. ‘There is something familiar about your face.
Have we met?’
‘I do not remember doing so.’
‘It is not important. As Marguerite told you, we have no need of additional help, but if your figure matches your face I might be able to squeeze you in. Strip off and let me look at you.’
Liane sat down and crossed her knees, her bag on her lap; Constance raised her eyebrows. ‘I am not seeking employment, Constance. I am here to employ you. If you are suitable.’
‘Just who do you think you are?’
‘I know who I am. My real name is Liane de Gruchy.’
Constance opened her mouth and then closed it again. Her right hand dropped beside the desk, but before she could either open the drawer or press the bell Liane had opened her satchel and levelled her Luger pistol. ‘I took this from the body of a Gestapo officer I killed,’ she said. ‘It does not actually make a lot of noise. But it does hold nine bullets, and the magazine is presently full. So put both your hands on the desk, and pray that no one comes through that door.’
Constance gasped ‘What do you want?’
‘You were recommended to me by Achille Custace.’
Constance’s eyebrows went up again. ‘You wish sex?’
‘Not right this minute. I have told you, I wish to employ you.’
‘I am fully employed. So are my girls. Every night from six in the evening to six in the morning.’
‘I do not wish to interfere with your business, Constance. I simply wish the use of one, or perhaps two, of your rooms from time to time. As a place to rest for my friends when they happen to be in Paris.’
‘Your friends? People who are on the run from the Germans? You must be mad. It is German officers who come here. This house is reserved for them.’
‘That is why my friends will be safe here. Are your girls trustworthy?’
‘I have not had to trust them with anything like this before. Anyway, I cannot do it. It is too risky. We could all be shot, or sent to a concentration camp. Or even hanged.’
‘I would like you to listen to me,’ Liane said. ‘Very carefully. We are a very large organization, and we have agents everywhere. You need to remember this, that should anything happen to me, my associates have the names of everyone I have seen or will see in Paris, and will pay them all a visit. You also need to remember that when the war is over, and we have won, we are going to remember everyone who assisted us with gratitude, and everyone who did not assist us with disfavour.’
Constance stared at her, but Liane knew that she spoke with such confident authority that the woman could not be sure whether or not she was telling the truth, nor was she in a position to dare risk finding out.
‘Now,’ Liane went on, ‘you will be informed when your guests will be arriving, and when they will be leaving again. Obviously it will be most convenient, and safest, if they arrive during the day, when you are not entertaining. The transfers will be made as rapidly as possible, but sometimes they may have to remain here for two or three days. While they are here you will be visited by a friend of mine who will take their photographs and issue them with papers. If any questions are asked, you will say that he comes to photograph your girls. He will do that as well.’
‘It is madness,’ Constance muttered.
‘Any risk you take will be for France. It will be up to you what you tell your girls, or Marguerite, but they will have to know that these men are seeking refuge from the Gestapo. You will receive a payment of five hundred francs per man per day. I suggest you share that with your people. Once they accept money they are committed, but I also suggest that you tell them what I have told you about the consequences of betrayal. Now, do you speak English?’
‘I have some.’
‘That should do. It is unlikely that many of your guests, if any, will speak French.’ She wagged her finger to and fro as Constance’s eyebrows went up again. ‘You should not even attempt to think about them. Just conceal them, feed them, and have them ready for collection. Are there any questions?’
‘These men, these fugitives, suppose they wish to use my girls?’
‘Then they must pay for it. Although I very much doubt that they will be in the mood for sex.’
‘They will be clean?’
‘When they arrive, probably not. But you can bathe them.’
‘I meant, they will not have VD.’
‘I very much doubt that, either. But I’m sure you can tell if a man is diseased by looking at his genitals. If anyone should be, then you must forbid him the use of your girls. They will not argue with you. Was there anything else?’
‘Yes. You will be back again?’
‘Regularly. Both to pay you and to check things out. I may also from time to time have to deliver your guests, and collect them again. But it will not always be me.’
‘I need to be able to reach you. Just in case there is a crisis.’
‘You must make sure there is not a crisis.’ Liane stood up. ‘It has been a pleasure speaking with you, madame. I will let myself out.’
*
Liane’s next stop was the Paris office of de Gruchy and Son. She knew the building well, and went up to the reception desk. ‘I would like to see Monsieur Brissard, please.’ The woman behind the desk looked her up and down. ‘Monsieur Brissard is a very busy man, mademoiselle.’
‘He will see me. Tell him I have news of the family.’
Another long stare. ‘You know Paulliac?’
‘I have just come from there.’
‘Wait here.’ The woman left the desk and disappeared into the office. From the amount of noise back there Liane decided the business was doing well, even without Papa running things. The woman returned. ‘Come with me.’ Liane followed her through the office, attracting glances from the clerks seated at the high desks entering invoices. She knew where the manager’s office was located, knew the interior of this as well, just as she knew the grey-haired, hunched-shouldered man who sat behind the desk. ‘Mademoiselle Bouchard,’ the woman said.
‘Well?’ Henri Brissard asked, without raising his head.
‘What I have to say is for your ears alone,’ Liane said, speaking very softly. Now Brissard did raise his head, his expression one of incredulity. ‘So kindly leave us, madame,’ Liane said.
The woman gave her boss an outraged glare, but Brissard was nodding. She left the room, closing the door, and Brissard got up and came round the desk. ‘Mademoiselle Liane?’ He peered at her. ‘My God! It is incredible. Your hair …’
She embraced him, kissed him on both cheeks. ‘I do not wish to be recognized, except by people I know I can trust.’
‘But to come to Paris … To come here …’
‘There is no danger. I am staying with a friend who is absolutely reliable. As for coming here, will you betray me?’
‘Of course I will not. But the danger …’
‘There will be no danger as long as we all keep our heads.’
He guided her to a settee against the wall, and sat beside her. ‘You wish money?’
‘Yes. How is the business doing?’
‘Very well.’
‘Who is managing at Paulliac?’
‘Jacques Bouterre.’
‘I remember Jacques. Is he doing a good job?’
‘An excellent job. As I said, we are doing well. There are no overseas sales, of course, but the Germans like good wine. I imagine your Papa will wish to leave Jacques in control, at least until he finds his feet again.’
‘I do not understand you. Papa is in prison in Germany.’
‘No, no, mademoiselle. He and your mother were returned from Germany two weeks ago. They are back in Paulliac.’
Liane stared at him in utter consternation. From the way he was speaking there could be no doubt that it was true. Which meant it could only be Madeleine’s doing. If that were so, she thought she could almost forgive her sister for marrying a Nazi. But … ‘They are alone there?’
‘No, no, mademoiselle. The servants are there.’
‘I meant, are
there any members of the family with them?’
‘Well, no, mademoiselle. With Madame Burstein dead … Did you not know of that?’
‘I heard of it.’
‘So tragic. And then Monsieur Pierre … You know he had to flee Paris last October. The Germans say he was operating an illegal radio. But when they went to arrest him, he had disappeared. They think he got into Vichy.’
‘What of Madeleine?’
‘Oh, well, Mademoiselle Madeleine married a German officer and left the country.’
‘You are sure she is not also in Paulliac?’
‘I do not think so. I have not heard of it. And frankly, mademoiselle, I am not sure she would be welcome there.’
What to do? If she found it difficult to believe that, having arrested her parents, the Gestapo had decided to let them go, it could only be because of Helsingen’s intervention, which, with his reputed close links to Hitler, was entirely possible. Thus they were living in Paulliac under German auspices. Did that make them collaborators, like Madeleine? Would they be so considered after the war? But the only alternative would be to go to Paulliac and get them out of there. To go where? She doubted they would survive in the Massif Central. She wondered if James would be prepared to fly them to England; as far as she knew the family still maintained a flat in Sloane Square, and she knew that Albert de Gruchy had always kept a considerable amount of money invested in England, as well as large balances in various English banks. While Mama, who was English, would have all her family and their wealth to support her. That would certainly be the answer. But she had no means of communicating with James until she returned to Moulin’s headquarters. The temptation to go back now was enormous. But her responsibilities here in Paris were even more enormous. ‘Mademoiselle?’ Brissard asked, anxiously.
Papa and Mama would have to wait. They would be quite safe in Paulliac, under German protection, no matter what people might think of them. The war was not going to end this year, that was certain, and she would again be in touch with James long before then. Dear James. He was, or appeared to be, so utterly in love with her. Even if she knew he disapproved of the life she had lived before the war, he still, again apparently, dreamed of marrying her. What would he say of the life she was living now, as the mistress of a somewhat disreputable bar owner? But he was a dream for her too, of peace and security when this was over. And love? She did not suppose that she had ever loved anyone in her life. But he was a man she could love. If she ever had the time. ‘I’m sorry, Henri.’ Brissard was now looking quite agitated. ‘I was thinking of my parents. Do you know when I last saw them? The 10th of May, 1940. The day of Amalie’s wedding. The day the Germans invaded. That is more than a year ago.’
The Game of Treachery Page 6
