British Bulldog

by Sara Sheridan

  Oblivious, Christine continued. ‘I will not say Jack Duggan didn’t betray me. I’ll not say he couldn’t have helped me when the Germans left Paris. Suddenly, when they didn’t need us any more, the British vanished.’ She gestured as if the entire British nation was a wisp of smoke that had blown out of reach. ‘Your lover came to see me when I was in hospital at the end of the war. They had admitted I was a resister but people didn’t believe it. It wasn’t enough. There had been reprisals because of what I had done. My lover was German. Jack offered me money to leave. “Why not go to one of the Spanish islands? Majorca? Just for a while,”’ she mimicked, then her tone hardened. ‘I risked my life for my country. All of France was dancing in the streets and I was supposed to skulk off as if I was ashamed. But I was proud. I wanted to tell them what I’d done even if they didn’t listen. And he wanted me to pack a bathing costume and sit on a Spanish beach? I would rather …’ She reached for the words but finding none adequate she pulled off one of her leather cuffs and rolled up her sleeve. All down the length of her arm Christine Moreau’s skin was pockmarked – the injuries Mirabelle had seen in the raw in the Red Cross files at the American Hospital.

  ‘They burned me. They branded me,’ she said. ‘And they shaved my head. My hair grew back, of course, but …’

  Mirabelle made herself take it in. The skin had healed but the surface looked more like tree bark made of flesh than the arm of what must have been a very beautiful woman.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ she whispered.

  ‘You’re quite right. The scars are on the inside too. We cannot help who we love. You know that as well as anyone.’ Christine shrugged. ‘And I loved von der Grün. I couldn’t stop myself. But I didn’t agree with his politics. I worked against the Nazis and I hoped I could have it all. If you stake a lot and you fail, you lose everything. That’s the truth.’ She pulled her sleeve back into place.

  ‘And Philip Caine?’ Mirabelle ventured. ‘He was in the same hospital as you, wasn’t he?’

  Christine nodded. ‘I met him long before that,’ she admitted. ‘Of course, Jack Duggan and Matthew Bradley enraged him too. He took a long time to even take it in properly. For the men who’d been away it was difficult to find their homes changed and their people gone.’

  ‘You mean Caine’s fiancée? Is that what they fell out about?’

  Christine’s eyes darkened. ‘No. Not that. He wished the girl well. No. He couldn’t believe that they hadn’t told him about his mother. While he’d been in France his brother had died in action and as far as everyone back in England was concerned, Philip was missing presumed dead. The old woman lost heart. She died. There was a suggestion that she had taken her own life. They couldn’t have told her what Caine was doing. He knew that in his rational mind. The story had to be that he was simply missing. But still … his whole family was gone, you see. His brother, his father, his mother – everyone. Bradley had promised to look after his people. His fiancée and his mother. He knew he’d never be able to own his daughter. The old woman was all he had left. Bradley let him down.’

  ‘And that’s why he attacked them at the hospital.’

  ‘Duggan and Bradley came to take him home, but there was no home to go to.’

  ‘He lived here, didn’t he? On the rue du Jour?’

  ‘During the occupation. On and off.’

  ‘And he was a Resistance fighter?’

  Christine stared into the middle distance. ‘A spy. Caine was more of a spy – you know, an agent,’ she said. ‘I don’t want to talk about it.’

  Mirabelle took a breath and would have pushed the other woman to say more, but she knew she wouldn’t talk about her war either. Not about some of the things she’d done. Christine was being very generous in letting her in this far.

  ‘Have you been spying too? Is that what you were up to last night?’

  Christine’s lip pursed only slightly. ‘The Russians are watching me,’ she said in a matter-of-fact tone. ‘That is the last time I will ever make such a trip. Now it is my job to keep them watching me for as long as I can.’

  ‘You’re going to keep them busy?’

  ‘I will walk in the park and make conversation with strangers. It might take them a month to realise that there is nothing going on now. It might take them three months. If they are watching me it’s two less Russians who are available to watch somebody else.’

  ‘And von der Grün?’

  Christine shook her head. ‘I think you ought to go now, Miss Bevan. You should leave by the rear.’

  The window that opened onto the back of the building still had its thin curtain drawn. Mirabelle slung her handbag over her arm and rose. Christine had said that Jack loved her, and yet that wasn’t enough to fill the void left by his death. She wanted to know what he had been doing here. She wanted to know what had happened to Caine.

  ‘You must go.’ Christine shooed her off.

  ‘Thank you for the gin. For everything.’

  ‘OK. Sure thing.’ Christine smiled, betraying a glimpse of the fact she had drunk two double gins only shortly after breakfast, if indeed she had eaten at all.

  ‘OK,’ Mirabelle repeated as she made for the door.

  Now, that was interesting.

  Chapter 20

  One cannot answer for his courage when he has never been in danger.

  On the main road, Mirabelle caught the Métro to Passy from Les Halles. The market was abandoned today, a gendarme walking his beat past the empty stalls. The street behind him was strangely deserted – after only a few days in Paris the Sunday silence already felt strange to Mirabelle as she descended into the station. The Métro seemed more complicated than the tube in London, but perhaps Mirabelle was simply more familiar with the ins and outs of the Northern and Piccadilly lines. She slowly read the map and boarded the right train. The journey allowed her time to think, and when she emerged from the station at the other end she turned away from the Eiffel Tower in the direction of the Bois de Boulogne. Jack always said if you let someone talk for long enough they’d tell you far more than they meant to. Christine had said a great deal this morning and Mirabelle dwelt on that. For a start, it seemed Christine’s love affair with von der Grün was over. She had talked about him in the past tense. He must have gone back to his wife. Mirabelle wondered if without the war and its immediate aftermath, Jack and she might have gone their separate ways. It hadn’t felt that way. If anything they had become closer as the affair progressed. She wondered if von der Grün stood trial for his crimes. Not every Nazi had merited Nuremberg, but courts had been set up across Europe. She must check.

  Last night the darkness had cloaked some of the grandeur of the great tree-lined boulevards of the 16th arrondissement. Now in the cold winter sunshine Mirabelle smiled at the elderly women walking their lapdogs. An enticing whiff of coffee emanated from the open door of a bar and she decided to stop and allay the effects of the gin. She sipped a café crème at the bar, Italian style, and continued on her way. The key to it all was here somewhere among these streets, she thought. Paris knew.

  At the rue de Siam it appeared that number 25 was occupied again. Smoke streamed from the chimney and the lights were on in the hall. When Mirabelle rang the doorbell, a maid appeared and bobbed a prompt curtsey.

  ‘Is your master in?’

  The girl looked over her shoulder. No doubt the butler should be the one to answer the bell.

  ‘Are you alone?’

  The maid nodded.

  ‘When will they return?’

  ‘Ce soir,’ she said. This evening.

  Mirabelle thanked her and headed up the street. She’d come back later. It was something to look forward to. It would be interesting to meet the man Christine Moreau had loved. Perhaps the delivery of the little packet the night before betokened the fact they still had a connection. She hoped von der Grün would betray himself – that she’d be able to read him.

  On the main road Sunday service was over and the congregation wa
s in the process of leaving church. Most people set out to walk home but one or two had brought cars and chauffeurs. Neighbours stopped to greet one another and a bottleneck formed around the priest, who was shaking hands with his congregation at the church door. Mirabelle followed the movement of the crowd, blending in so perfectly that an elderly gentleman wished her well this fine Sunday. She shook his hand and passed on. Several people walked in the same direction, and it wasn’t until they arrived at their destination that she realised they were making for the cemetery.

  At the gate a young girl stood at a flower stall, selling lilies and ivy wreaths. Without hesitation Mirabelle moved through the iron gates past a stone relief commemorating the soldiers of the Great War and she took the path to the left. While her college companions slept in all those years ago she had stayed up to make an early morning visit to Paris’s largest cemetery, Père Lachaise, to lay flowers on her grandmother’s grave. That was on the other side of town. She wondered fleetingly if anyone was tending the old woman’s plot now or if the grave had been taken over by weeds. Père Lachaise would look after it, she comforted herself. Here in Passy the gravestones were tidy. The cemetery felt like an enclave, surrounded by chestnut trees. Flowers were piled up on the stones commemorating Debussy and Manet. White lilies framed two plots occupied by members of the Romanov family – Russian royalty. Next to the Grand Duchess there was a private plot with a row of picture frames containing images of the people who were buried there – all one family with a long Russian name. A row of stones and some greenery adorned the grave of Georges Mandel, one of the male French Resistance fighters so greatly resented by Christine Moreau.

  Mirabelle sat on a bench and stared in the direction of the Trocadero beyond the boundary of the cemetery walls. A couple passed on their way to the gates, discussing where to have lunch. The woman’s arm was slung casually through her husband’s.

  ‘Not le Châtelet,’ she said. ‘Last time the soup was terrible.’

  Mirabelle smiled at such domesticity. They passed out of earshot as a man with an American accent showed his son around – a strange outing for a child, Mirabelle thought.

  ‘It’s the only cemetery with a heated waiting room,’ the man said, acting the tour guide.

  ‘OK,’ the little boy replied with gravitas, as if he was taking in this strange detail and memorising it.

  Mirabelle sat a little straighter. ‘OK,’ Christine had said. ‘Sure thing.’ As if it was natural to use the phrase. So, it might be assumed that Mademoiselle Moreau was working for the Americans. A smile played around Mirabelle’s lips. Yes, it would be like the Yanks to supply Boodles Dry Gin – they were generous but in her experience they generally missed the mark.

  She stood up. All things American resided not far from here, in the 8th arrondissement. There was an embassy and a grand ambassador’s residence. She cast a glance at a Napoleonic ossuary – such a strange custom, but then Paris was famous for its catacombs. As she turned to leave she was already planning a route westwards. It would divert her for the afternoon until von der Grün came back to town.

  When the man touched her, it took her a moment to recognise there was a firm hand on her elbow. It was so unusual to be accosted in that way that she didn’t understand immediately what was going on. Then she turned, and let out a cry as a man in a Mackintosh closed in. With a strong grip on both her arms, he guided her along the path. Her mind swam. It was the man from the library – the one with the seat next to the reference section.

  ‘What are you doing? Get off me!’ she snapped, kicking him as hard as she could.

  The man produced a handkerchief and thrust it in her face. ‘She always gets upset here,’ he said to a woman who had turned from the grave she was tending.

  Mirabelle tried to pull away. She wanted to shout, but the fabric smelled of chemicals and whatever they were had made her woozy. Her diction suddenly slurred and she was having difficulty keeping her balance. She leaned into the man’s side in order to stay upright and he steered her along the path. It was an odd sensation, trying to get away at the same time as toppling towards him.

  ‘Ma pauvre,’ the man said as if he was comforting a grieving widow.

  ‘You can’t … I’m a British citizen,’ Mirabelle managed to get out, but her voice was too low to be heard by anyone other than the person she was trying to escape from. ‘No,’ she said again, gasping for breath and hearing the word come out as a moan.

  The man laid a firm hand on her waist as he guided her through the gate. The flower girl nodded as if she understood how upsetting it was to visit the cemetery. Mirabelle opened her mouth, but no sound came out. She felt suddenly as if she might fall asleep, and no amount of knowing that she mustn’t could overtake the feeling that was sweeping through her limbs. She was vaguely aware of a car pulling up and the man lifting her inside. The seat was upholstered in red leather and the interior smelled of half-eaten apples and crumpled newspaper. She felt her body sway as the engine drew away from the kerb. Remember how long they drive and if there are twists and turns. Listen for noises that can identify the route. She tried to remember the drill, clinging on to it as if she was a swimmer about to go under. Then an image appeared in her mind’s eye of Jack smiling. She relaxed. And after that everything went black.

  Chapter 21

  If you aren’t in over your head how do you know how tall you are?

  When Mirabelle came round she was in a bare room with no windows apart from a grubby skylight, the outlook from which informed her that it was late in the afternoon, probably close to dusk. A bare light bulb was switched on, illuminating worn pine floorboards and chipped plasterwork. Against the wall her handbag lay open where they had rifled through it. Her limbs felt stiff and she was tied to the arm of the high-backed chair in which she was sitting, secured by means of a long rag. The man must have been half-hearted about detaining her because he had only tied her right wrist, leaving her left hand free to pick at the knot. She started on it immediately.

  ‘Miss Bevan.’ The voice came from behind her. It sounded amused.

  Mirabelle squirmed, but it was impossible to turn round. She couldn’t see him. She let go of the material. Then she manoeuvred her jaw, checking she could move it before she tried to speak. Her throat felt dry, and she thought that standing up would only make her more groggy. It was probably to her advantage to stay seated until she recovered from whatever had been on that piece of cloth. This did not temper her outrage.

  ‘Well,’ she said, ‘I don’t know what you’re thinking. Kidnapping is illegal. I’m a British citizen. You’re in the process of causing an international incident.’

  The man walked into her line of sight and slowly lit a cigarette. He held up the packet. Disque Bleu. ‘Do you smoke?’

  ‘Not really.’

  He smiled. ‘So British. Any other nationality would say yes or no, but you British are so charming. So indirect. “Not really”!’

  ‘Please untie me.’

  The man kept the cigarette between his lips and leaned over her, pulling at the knot until it unravelled. Up close Mirabelle could ascertain no clues as to his identity from his appearance. There was something overwhelmingly neutral about him. His accent was so perfect that it wasn’t there all.

  ‘I can see we’re going to get on,’ he said.

  Mirabelle rubbed her wrist. So, she reasoned, he was trying to befriend her. That kind of interrogation was old-fashioned even by the time she left the SOE. It was far more effective to keep your distance and build up real trust by not lying to a prisoner. Most people would talk eventually with a prod or two, if only you knew how to listen. This over-friendly rigmarole was ten years out of date and the man was acting as if he hadn’t snatched her in public. That was interesting. She’d have thought that he might threaten her. He could have replied to her outburst that international incident or not, he had the power of life and death and that no one knew where she was, and for that matter no one need ever know. He could have th
reatened her with truth drugs. It always amazed Mirabelle how afraid people were of truth drugs. It was as if they couldn’t really trust themselves, as if they were terrified the barbiturates would uncover a truth they weren’t aware of. She knew better. If it was old-fashioned play-pretend chums he wanted, she’d play along.

  ‘Thank you.’ She smiled, rubbing her wrist. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘You can call me Albert.’

  It wouldn’t be his real name. He’d chosen something that made sense in English and French as well as Russian.

  ‘Where am I?’

  ‘Paris, Miss Bevan. I didn’t bring you far. You’ve been sleeping, that’s all.’

  ‘Sleeping? That’s one way to put it. What do you want?’

  The man looked vaguely amused. His eyes lingered on Mirabelle’s ankles. ‘I want to know why you’re here. What brought you to France?’

  ‘I came to your attention because I visited Christine Moreau. Is that it?’

  Albert nodded.

  ‘Well, there’s no secret. Miss Moreau is an old acquaintance. She made a dress for me in the 1930s, when I visited Paris with friends. I hoped she might make me another, but I fear she doesn’t take on that kind of work any more. Your Mackintosh is like a uniform, monsieur. You and your colleagues. If you spotted me, I spotted you just as quickly.’

  Albert squatted so that his face was level with hers. Mirabelle caught a whiff of spirits and stale coffee on his breath beneath the tobacco.

  ‘That’s interesting. Why would you notice us? Did you already know we were here? Were you looking for us? Most people don’t register people like me, Miss Bevan. Or people like you, if it comes to that. Do they?’

  ‘A lady on her own always notices what a gentleman is wearing. When two gentlemen are wearing exactly the same thing, it catches the eye. That’s what brought you to my attention.’