‘Diane is dead,’ Martel stated flatly, cutting him off.
Noam showed no emotion but his sharp gaze swivelled to Romy and she did what she had sworn she wouldn’t. She lost control. She hooked her hands into his repulsive apron and dragged him closer.
‘What have you done to my sister?’
‘Get your hands off me.’
He tried to break her grip but she hung on. She could smell the raw pig fat on him. ‘Tell me where she is, you bastard, or I will take one of your own meat cleavers to your skull.’
‘I hear you’re good at that.’
‘You hear right.’
‘What makes you think I had anything to do with your sister?’
‘Did you?’
‘Non.’
‘You’re lying.’
The man’s whole face tightened and the nostrils of his heavy nose flared, his breath hot in her face. ‘Your sister is a traitor to France.’
Her hand shot out and slapped his face so hard, the imprint of it remained on his cheek in a fiery brand.
‘Stop it!’ Martel’s strong arms tore them apart and he stepped between them. ‘You are no better than street brats.’ He turned his back on Romy and went toe to toe with Noam. ‘Did you have anything to do with Madame Florence Roussel’s disappearance?’
‘No, I did not.’ He spat on the greasy floor and it solidified in the cold. ‘But that bitch and her husband deserve the guillotine. They are handing France to Germany on a plate.’
Romy stared at him in horror. ‘Is that what you think too, Léo? That my sister deserves to die?’
But he didn’t reply, instead he turned to Noam. ‘Do you know where her sister is?’
‘No, I do not.’
Léo Martel did not stand around any longer. He took Romy by the shoulders and started to steer her back between the dead creatures towards the door, but she stopped and twisted her head to look back at the man with the dark killer eyes.
‘What is it, Noam, that makes you work in a place like this?’
He spread his hands, palms up, and for the first time, Romy saw him smile, a small angry smile, consumed by some private emotion.
‘Who would think of searching for a Jew among the unclean bodies of swine?’
Romy lost the afternoon, it slipped through her fingers faster than pig grease. She hunched on the floor, her head hanging over the lavatory bowl, and cursed herself. She had walked with Martel away from the hateful factory
Deserve the guillotine?
Martel bought a slice of watermelon from a market stall and fed it to Romy in the shade of a broad-leafed lime tree. He wiped the juice from her lips with his finger.
‘Romy, have faith. We will find her if she is still in Paris. I will put out the word that if any of our people have her she is to be unharmed.’
Romy leaned her shoulder against him. ‘Thank you, Léo.’ She could still taste the poison of Noam’s words in her mouth despite the sweetness of the melon. ‘Do you believe him, Léo?’
‘Yes, I do.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I know I can trust him.’
‘Trust him? I would rather skewer him over a roasting pit. He is the kind of man who would smile at me as the knife slides between my ribs. So no, I don’t trust the bastard.’
‘His family comes from Nuremberg. His father was a jeweller, a Jewish jeweller, who was beaten to death by Hitler’s bully boys in 1935. His sister was raped despite the law that forbids sex with Jews. His mother committed suicide by hanging herself from a swastika flagpole.’
‘Stop it, Léo. Stop trying to make me feel sorry for him.’
Martel wrapped an arm around her shoulders and she caught a quiet sigh that slipped from his lips. ‘He is my friend, Romy. So yes, I believe him. I will find out what I can for you. Trust me. Now go back to the apartment and sleep.’ He ran a hand along her arm and she could feel the urgency in his fingertips. ‘You need to sleep, my love.’
‘What is it that Noam does for you?’
He looked at her, surprised, then smiled. ‘Ask instead what I do for him.’
Fear spread abruptly, touched her spine. ‘What is it you do for Noam?’
‘Let me see what I can find out about your sister first. We can discuss Noam later.’
Romy kissed his lips because she wanted him to take a part of her with him, and then he was gone. He was like the shadows on a grey day, fading before you could quite grasp them. She hurried back to the dank basement apartment by the Seine, but it was just before she reached it, hurrying over the cobbles, that a thought slid into her mind as smoothly as an assassin’s blade slides between ribs.
What if Léo and Noam had rehearsed that scene in the meat factory? What if they had predicted her action and had picked which words to feed her?
The thought shredded her. Her stomach cried out for the old familiar numbness. She turned into the bar on the corner with the four cats curled up in the doorway.
‘Chloé.’
‘Tante Romy, you’re here.’
The child flew into her waiting arms the moment she entered the Avenue Kléber apartment, curls fluttering, fingers clinging stubbornly to the straps of Romy’s dress. Chloé had learned the hard way that people can vanish from your life with no warning and she wasn’t about to let it happen a second time. She pressed her warm cheek against Romy’s and their tears mingled.
‘Is Maman with you?’ Chloé pleaded.
‘Not yet, sweetheart, but she will be back soon.’
The child was trembling.
Romy became aware of Roland standing at the far end of the hallway, watching them.
Florence, where are you?
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
FLORENCE
I love my sister.
I realise the full truth of those words now.
That is the solitary benefit of being locked away on your own hour after hour. Your mind clears. The flotsam falls away. The strong black lines of truth stand out.
The lines are the scaffolding of life. They are made up of love. And hate.
Love of someone. Of a cause. Of justice. Of self.
Hate of someone. Of a cause. Of justice. Of self.
For years I thought I hated my sister. I was wrong. It was part of the flotsam. Once when Chloé was a tiny bundle of golden smiles and I was cradling her in my arms, smelling her skin, touching her ear with the tip of my tongue, showing her a bee buzzing on the other side of the window glass, Romaine arrived. Blind drunk. She tried to snatch the baby from me. To steal my love. But Roland was here. He threw her out.
At the time I hated her for it. But now I realise she was desperate, up to her neck in her own flotsam, drowning in it, unable to see the lines. She tried to steal my love because she had none of her own, not even self-love. Especially not self-love.
My eyes are closed. In the blackness I see my sister’s pale face at the trial. A girl of seventeen with her scaffolding falling away day by day till she became someone I didn’t know. I lost my sister as well as my father that day in the study.
Because of her I am here. Isolated. Alone. Fear lying heavy as a dog on my chest.
But I love my sister.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
‘Back to your old habits, I see.’
‘My habits are my business, Roland.’
‘Not when you’re in my house.’
Did it show so much? She had washed, scrubbed her teeth and changed her clothes. She was wearing a strappy summer dress and had brushed her hair fiercely to rid it of fumes, yet still he could smell the whisky on her. Or was it in her eyes? They say alcohol robs the eyes of their soul. If that’s the case, she’d lost hers years ago.
She had woken mid-afternoon, shivering. Six jackhammers were pounding the back of her eyes. She made herself presentable, left a note for Martel and raced over to the Avenue Kléber apartment to see Chloé. Maybe it had all been a mistake. Maybe Florence had returned. But no, only Chloé and Roland were at home, waiting
for a key in the door.
Now she had bathed Chloé and brought her into the drawing room to say goodnight to her father. Roland was talking on the telephone but hung up immediately and drew Chloé on to his lap. She snuggled in to him and he wrapped a strong arm around her to keep her safe. Romy watched. It hurt. To see how much the child loved this man. But Romy had no right to wish it otherwise. If Chloé was happy and reassured, that’s what mattered. She smiled at her sister’s daughter and came over to kiss her goodbye. Amélie, Chloé’s nanny, was standing quietly by the door ready to take her charge up to bed, and then the conversation with Roland would not be a pleasant one.
To Romy’s surprise, when she bent to brush her lips over the tender young cheek, Roland reached out and took her hand in his. Not roughly. In a fond and friendly way. She stared at him, watchful.
‘Wait a minute, Romaine.’
She waited. Suspicious. Her hand itching to escape.
‘What is it, Roland?’
‘I’m thinking you should stay here. With Chloé and me. Until Florence returns.’
Chloé erupted with delight and hugged her father. ‘Yes, Tante Romy, say yes.’
Romy was stunned. Stay here? With the heavy scent of roses from the flowers in the hallway and the shadow of Florence over every footstep she took.
‘Oh Roland, I don’t think . . .’
‘You must say yes, Tante Romy.’ Chloé squirmed off her father’s lap and wrapped her arms around Romy’s waist.
By asking her in front of Chloé, Roland had trapped her.
Roland refilled his whisky glass. Romy’s teeth ached for it. But she sipped her water in silence and felt the jackhammers reduce to one as she held his dark gaze across the room.
‘I spoke to them,’ she announced.
‘Your friends?’
He said the word friends with the distaste others would reserve for scorpions.
‘Yes.’
‘Including your Monsieur Martel?’
‘Including him. But Martel is not mine. He is his own man.’
‘He is a man who is proving to be a thorn in the side of a lot of people. He should take more care.’
‘Is that a warning?’
He treated her to his smooth diplomatic smile. ‘A word of advice, nothing more.’
‘They know nothing of my sister’s disappearance.’
‘Either you are lying.’ His eyes narrowed to dark points. ‘Or they are.’
She turned her head away from him, unwilling to look at him in case she said things in the heat of anger that would be unwise. Her hand reached for a cigarette from the silver cigarette box on the table and she was caught off guard when Roland approached with his fancy gold lighter and lit it for her. She reminded herself that he must be suffering too. His wife had been kidnapped. She could be dead.
Not dead.
Please. Don’t let Florence be dead.
She exhaled sharply and looked at Roland through the smoke, seeking the signs of grief and rage that must be etched on his face, but all she could find was a man who was in total control of every muscle on his face. No sorrow. Not now. Not like in her attic room. That Roland was not this Roland.
‘Why do you want me to stay here?’ she asked.
‘For Chloé’s sake.’
‘I think, Roland, that there is another reason.’
He was pacing the room with whisky in hand, but halted in front of her at that. ‘And what might that be?’
‘To separate me from Léo Martel.’
‘And why would I want to do that?’
‘Because I am your wife’s sister.’
‘No,’ he responded with an edge to his voice. ‘You’ve got it wrong. The only thing I’d want to separate you from is a whisky bottle.’
It was like a slap. Colour rose to her cheeks and she raised her water glass to him. ‘Santé.’
He smiled broadly. He knew he had drawn blood.
‘Do you think Florence has left you?’ Romy struck back.
He shook his head dismissively. ‘No, of course not.’ He paused, studying her face. ‘Do you? Is that what you think?’
She couldn’t lie. ‘No, I don’t. What I think is this. Because you are involved in some dangerous secret manoeuvring with Germany, intent on delivering a docile France into Hitler’s greedy hands, your wife has been kidnapped. She is being held captive to pressure you to switch sides.’
Abruptly her fingers started to prod at his crisp white shirt, leaving dents in it.
‘You are responsible, Roland.’ Each word came with a jab. ‘You. You are to blame for the fact that Florence’s life is at risk. That she is probably tied up in some filthy basement, cowering in fear.’ Her voice was rising but she couldn’t stop it. ‘You. You are to blame, Roland.’
He didn’t back away. He took a long swig of his whisky, rolled it around his mouth and took his time swallowing it. He made a point of breathing its fumes in her face.
‘Me, Romaine? Me? What about you? You’re the one to blame for this mess.’
Roland had settled himself on the chaise longue, his hand still gripping his glass, though it was empty. His mouth was tilted in a self-satisfied twist, spoiling for a fight.
Romy decided not to give it to him. She stood motionless half a room away and kept her tone polite. ‘Why do you claim I am to blame for Florence’s kidnap?’
‘Because it’s your left-wing Communist-hugging cadres that have done this and they have been led to Florence by you, not by me.’ He smacked his glass down on a side table and it gave out an audible crack. ‘Tell them, Romaine, that I want my wife back.’ He paused, anger burning in him. ‘Or they will pay heavily.’
‘I have no control over them, despite what you imagine. Don’t you think I would wrench my sister from captivity if I could? They say they’ve had nothing to do with . . .’
‘They say. They say.’ He hurled his glass into the fireplace where it shattered into a thousand diamonds.
She stalked over to her brother-in-law. ‘I know it’s hard, Roland. For you. For Chloé. For me. And I haven’t told our mother yet.’
‘Mon dieu, keep her out of this.’
Romy walked over to the drinks cabinet, an exquisite 200-year-old piece made of figured sycamore, and avoiding the slivers of crystal that glittered on the floor, she returned with two glasses filled to the brim with whisky. She presented one to Roland. The other she placed on the table untouched.
‘Roland, answer me this.’
He glanced up at her, wary. ‘What?’
‘Do you know the code name Cupid?’
He did not need to answer. He froze. His drink poised at his lips. His eyes grew flat and blank.
‘Yes, I do.’
‘Who is it?’
He laughed, a sound like pebbles in a tin can, harsh and unpleasant. ‘I don’t know. And if I did, I wouldn’t tell you. I hear he has been creating havoc among your agents.’
‘If you call a bullet in the brain havoc, yes, he has.’
He swilled out his mouth with whisky, his lips glistening.
‘I hear he is German,’ she commented.
He exhaled a rush of air. ‘You are remarkably well informed.’
‘I thought Horst Baumeister might be Cupid.’
‘It’s possible. He knew how to keep secrets.’
‘But there has been another killing since his death.’
Romy saw an idea dawn in Roland’s mind. ‘You think it’s me.’
‘I did wonder, yes.’
He uttered a chuckle, low and almost soundless. ‘Did you inform my sister of your suspicion?’
‘No. Not exactly. But I warned her to be careful. And now she has gone. Is that a coincidence?’
His hand shot out for a grip on her, but this time she was too fast for him. She skipped backwards, staying just out of reach.
‘Roland, if you touch me again I will walk out and not come back, I promise you.’
Instantly he gathered his long arms to himse
lf, sank both hands into his trouser pockets and, with a face full of apology, said, ‘I’m sorry, Romaine. Please excuse me. I am worried sick about my wife, certain that it’s your friends who have taken her. You always know how to rile me. I apologise.’
Romy snatched up her shoulder bag. She was shaken but gave no sign of it. ‘I am going out now but I will be back later this evening.’ She turned her back on him. ‘For Chloé’s sake.’
‘No, Romaine, don’t, I . . .’
But she was out the door and running down the stairs.
The two figures walked along the river, down on the cobbled lower quais where the summer air was like silk on the skin. The lamplight from the bridges tumbled down into the water of the Seine and drew large brown moths with wings of velvet that flitted around their heads. It wasn’t dark yet. It was that thin segment of time between daylight and nighttime when the world seemed to retreat and there was only the here and now. Only Romy’s hand in Martel’s, the heat of his arm against hers.
They didn’t hurry the words because they knew that when they were finished they must part for the evening. Their voices were soft, in time with their steps, their heads close as they mingled with the other lovers who were stealing a kiss and a caress. No different. Nothing to make them stand out. Except their eyes. Watchful. Alert. Darting to faces, picking out shadows. Quick to spot any look that lingered a moment too long.
‘You don’t have to go back there, Romy.’
‘I do.’
‘Chloé has her father and her nanny to look after her.’
‘She needs me. Until her mother comes home.’
Martel murmured something too soft to hear and Romy leaned her head on his shoulder. ‘Trust me, Léo.’
‘It is not safe with that man.’ He brushed his fingertips over the purple bruises on her arm.
‘He is using me. To get to you.’
‘He has nothing he can prove against me.’
‘Léo, my love, if a man has a gun he doesn’t need proof.’
She wrapped an arm around his strong waist and together they walked without words, just the lazy roll of the waves tilting at the riverbanks each time a boat swept past. The solitary North Star gleamed overhead but could not compete with the City of Lights as it dressed itself for a night of revelry.
The Betrayal Page 24
