British Bulldog

by Sara Sheridan

  How tortuous, she thought, waiting for the news – lodging on the rue du Jour, in the care of Christine Moreau. Waiting for the woman he loved to marry his friend. But then, what he might be able to achieve for the Allies was so important … Mirabelle ran through the likely options – what had Jack decided Caine should do? There was no question the flight lieutenant would have been told to make contact with his cousin, but did Jack intend Caine to turn the Standartenführer for the Allies? Wilhelm, after all, had not been a member of the Nazi party in 1935. She wondered how late he had left it to join. Might he be considered vulnerable? Might Caine’s mission have been to turn his cousin into a double agent? Or was the flight lieutenant simply instructed to position himself to gain inside information? There were other British officers who lasted out the war in Paris – one had famously won a fortune at the races and set himself up in an apartment in Saint-Cloud. Perhaps the plan was for Caine to throw himself on his cousin’s mercy and lodge in the family house keeping his ears open. Or had Jack encouraged Caine to let his cousin think he had turned him against Britain by feeding false information to the Nazis while really being a triple agent and true to the Allies? Whatever his orders, she didn’t envy Caine having to make the initial contact. Had he called at the rue de Siam or followed Wilhelm into a café one afternoon and slipped into a seat beside him? Wherever that first meeting took place it must have been terrifying – Caine couldn’t have been sure how von der Grün would react. Despite their relationship, the Standartenführer might simply have turned him over to the authorities and from there it would have been straight back to the Stalag at best. At worst Caine would have faced a firing squad, because as often as not a man out of uniform was a spy. In fact, from the moment Jack started to handle him, Caine wasn’t just a serviceman any more – he was a spy. Mirabelle’s fingers tingled at the thought.

  ‘Are you all right?’ McGregor asked, looking up from the menu. Mirabelle gulped in some air. She had been so busy thinking through the possibilities that she had forgotten where she was and with whom. The past engulfed her too easily. McGregor indicated the menu. ‘I can’t tell one dish from another. When I was a kid we learned a bit of French at school, but not enough, it seems.’ He smiled. ‘I fancy chicken, if there is any.’

  Mirabelle blinked. Her stomach turned. ‘I don’t feel like eating.’

  ‘Well, I’m ravenous.’ McGregor motioned to the waiter and pointed to the card.

  ‘Poulet?’ he enquired.

  ‘Et pour madame?’ the waiter replied coldly.

  Mirabelle shook her head. ‘Encore du vin?’

  ‘Oui.’ McGregor seemed to be able to make that out easily enough. As the waiter retreated he leaned over the table. ‘I don’t need ten years of experience on the force to see something’s up, Mirabelle. Could you use a hand?’

  Mirabelle looked doubtful. ‘It’s going to be important to blend in.’

  McGregor laughed. ‘Aah.’ He peered down the side of the table, taking in her boots. ‘I noticed you might be having some difficulty with that. Or have you been riding?’

  She blushed. ‘I’ll need some shoes,’ she admitted, ‘but apart from that …’

  ‘I probably look foreign, do I?’ McGregor asked.

  ‘A little.’

  ‘I thought I’d done all right. Well, you could Frenchify me, if you like. It’s always interesting about people, isn’t it? I mean, they don’t notice what fits, they notice what doesn’t – the one tiny thing that’s out of place. We get it all the time on the force. See, if I was describing you, I’d say five foot five, slender build, auburn shoulder-length hair, hazel eyes. Or the waiter – I’d say five ten, strawberry blond. No more than thirty-five. But a witness, they’d say the woman was, pardon me, ordinary enough but she was wearing riding boots with a dress. Course they would. They wouldn’t have a clue how tall you were. They wouldn’t think of that.’

  ‘Point taken.’

  ‘Let me give you a hand, eh? And perhaps tomorrow you could show me around. You must know the place. The Eiffel Tower? The cathedral of Notre Dame? Once you’re finished your work?’

  ‘I’m not sure how long this will take. And it might be dangerous, Superintendent.’

  McGregor lifted his glass. ‘Enough of the “Superintendent”! It’s Alan, please. And I owe you my life already, don’t I?’ he said referring to the year before when Mirabelle had freed him from a cellar on Queen’s Road where he’d been tied up for the best part of twenty-four hours. ‘You can tell me what’s going on. What did Vesta send you?’

  Mirabelle paused. She wasn’t sure how to express it. Her mind was still churning the details. Was Philip Caine the reason Christine Moreau met Wilhelm von der Grün in the first place? Had she only encouraged the German as part of the scheme? Did she sleep with him for her country and then fall in love afterwards? Suddenly the whole situation seemed too complicated to unravel – whose side had everyone been on? It was impossible to tell. Perhaps that was why Jack had come here himself in 1944. Perhaps even he’d lost track of it all.

  The waiter brought a basket of bread and a butter dish.

  ‘You should try to eat something,’ McGregor encouraged her.

  Mirabelle picked up a slice without even looking at it. ‘I wonder if they have soup,’ she said.

  McGregor’s face split in an open grin. ‘That’s the spirit. Well, they probably have onion soup, won’t they? With cheese on top? I believe that’s standard rations around here.’

  Mirabelle nodded. ‘And afterwards I have to go and visit someone,’ she said.

  ‘So Vesta’s papers were useful then?’

  ‘Very.’

  McGregor buttered a slice of bread liberally and decided not to push her any further. Mirabelle clearly wasn’t going to give away anything willingly and he knew from experience that she was a tough nut to crack. Still, he wasn’t prepared to give up entirely. ‘Tell you what, you don’t have to say a word. I’ll just come with you. It’s a nice night for an outing. You look as though you could use a hand.’

  Mirabelle considered. The Russians hadn’t seen McGregor yet. That of itself might be useful. If they were looking for her, a woman on her own, the addition of a male partner might buy some extra time.

  ‘Of course you can come,’ she said, relenting. ‘Where I’m going we have to pass the Eiffel Tower so at least you’ll get to see that.’

  ‘Vesta said that it’s a British airman you’re looking for?’

  ‘Missing since 1944,’ she confirmed.

  ‘Well, here’s to a nice little holiday finding the old fellow,’ he said.

  Mirabelle sipped her wine and chose not to correct him.

  Chapter 24

  To be trusted is a greater compliment than being loved.

  By the time they left the bistro it was well after nine o’clock and Mirabelle felt a lot better now she had eaten. The night air was refreshing as they hailed a taxi on the rue Saint-Honoré and Mirabelle gave the driver directions to the rue de Siam. It was late to make a social call, but the trail had led her back to Passy and, she reasoned, she’d rather return under the cover of darkness and as soon as possible. There was no advantage to be had from waiting till the following morning; in fact it only gave the Russians longer to find her.

  After ten minutes driving through deserted streets, the taxi pulled in smoothly just round the corner from von der Grün’s house. Quietened with a few francs, the driver turned off the engine. Mirabelle craned her neck to peer down the street to see if the house was being watched. The pavement was empty, not a single car parked along its length. Curtains were mostly drawn in the windows on both sides. Nevertheless, there was no harm in being careful. She directed McGregor to von der Grün’s front door while she waited anxiously in the back of the taxi, watching from a distance as he loitered for a moment and then rang the bell. In the front seat, the driver lit a cigarette and rolled down the window to let out the smoke.

  Von der Grün must know what had happened to
his cousin, Mirabelle reasoned. He must at least know where Caine had been for the last ten years. And if Caine was dead he’d know where he was buried. Everything seemed to revolve around this man: Christine’s suffering, Caine’s whereabouts and Jack’s reason for being in Paris. Along the road McGregor stepped back slightly as the door opened and warm light flooded onto the pavement at his feet. Mirabelle could just make out the silhouette of the maid who had answered the door earlier. McGregor took a moment to enquire for the Comte de Vert.

  ‘I won’t have a clue what they’re saying,’ he had pointed out on the drive across town.

  ‘It will be obvious,’ Mirabelle retorted. ‘And von der Grün probably speaks English. Besides, if he’s there I’ll follow you in.’

  Now she leaned forward in her seat, clutching the edge of the leather upholstery, waiting for McGregor to disappear inside the black-and-white tiled hallway – her cue to follow him. The driver threw the butt of his cigarette onto the pavement and blew a last stream of smoke into the freezing night air. On the rue de Siam, McGregor turned. The door closed without admitting him, the street was returned to amber-lit semi-darkness and the superintendent walked back to the car.

  ‘He’s not in. I think she said he had gone to the opera.’

  ‘The opera?’

  McGregor nodded.

  ‘If it’s the national opera, it’s close to where we just came from.’ Mirabelle sounded annoyed.

  McGregor checked his watch. ‘It’s only ten minutes back again.’ He liked the idea of another ride across town sitting next to Mirabelle. They had been all but silent crossing the city. He had discounted reaching out to hold her hand – she seemed too distracted. She was wearing some kind of lavender perfume, or perhaps it was only the scent of soap that lingered on her skin. In the confined back seat of the taxi he could tell it was different from the musky perfume she normally wore in Brighton.

  ‘They won’t let us in.’ Mirabelle cast her palm down her outfit dismissively. ‘I’d need a cocktail dress at least, and certainly not these ridiculous boots.’

  McGregor regarded his tweed suit, which was no more acceptable. He’d never been to the opera – the most he’d ever stretched to was a Saturday matinee at the Lyceum and that was years ago. He realised that whenever he was with Mirabelle the world felt larger, more sophisticated.

  ‘We could wait till he gets home,’ he offered. ‘It won’t take more than a couple of hours, will it?’

  Mirabelle said nothing and eyed the hotel sign at the other end of the rue de Siam. The street was known to the men in the Mackintoshes – she didn’t want to spend more time there than she had to.

  ‘No. I’m not giving up,’ she said. ‘We’ll think of something.’ She leaned over to give the driver instructions.

  The Trocadero gardens were lit up as they passed. As in all cities with grand architecture, the night lent an extra air of glamour to the Parisian streets. Here and there an enticing arcade led off the main road, lit by ornate lamps like secret passageways. The paint was often flaking but the entrances were bordered by immaculately tended bay trees. The buildings seemed formal but the passages were more friendly, as if they were byways to the real life of the city.

  As the taxi pulled up a hundred yards along from the opera house there was a crush of waiting cars ahead. At the front of the building a stall selling flowers spread along the pale stone steps leading to the entrance, its business in buttonholes and corsages over for the evening. An old woman bundled in a thick woollen coat fussed over a bucket of white lilies in anticipation of the orders for bouquets to be sent to the divas after the performance. Golden angels peered down from the rooftop at her wares and large buckets of red roses punctuated the sculpted columns.

  McGregor paid the driver as Mirabelle took in the building, considering the possibilities. Tosca was playing tonight. There were large posters on display along the front of it. As in London, the opera houses in Paris had stopped playing German music for a long time after the war. ‘The devil has the best tunes, though. I miss Wagner,’ Mirabelle remembered Jack saying. Italian composers had benefited from more willing forgiveness, though by now even Schumann and Mahler were back on the programme at Covent Garden. The French, it seemed, cut the Germans less slack – the posters here advertised Bizet and Berlioz, Rossini, Puccini and even Ralph Vaughan Williams, but nothing German.

  Checking to one side, she wondered if she might be able to sneak in through the stage door. It flashed across her mind that she could buy a bunch of flowers and insist upon delivering them to one of the dressing rooms in person. From backstage it should be possible to make her way to the public areas. But before she could move, McGregor grabbed her hand and pulled her away from the entrance. He removed the blue scarf at his neck and bundled it into a ball.

  ‘Put that down your dress,’ he hissed.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Down the front of your dress,’ he insisted. ‘So you look pregnant.’

  Mirabelle baulked. The dress was woollen. It would be stretched beyond recognition, the line completely ruined.

  ‘I was planning to go in through the stage door,’ she objected.

  ‘This will work better. Honestly,’ McGregor insisted. ‘A pregnant tourist who needs to use the lavatory. It’ll get both of us inside. And through the main entrance too.’

  Mirabelle stared. He was probably right, but she would look even more ghastly than she did already. She tried not to think too much as she shoved the scarf in place.

  McGregor inspected her. ‘Higher,’ he said.

  Mirabelle looked confused.

  ‘Haven’t you ever seen a pregnant woman? The bump sits higher.’

  ‘All right, all right.’

  She shifted uncomfortably and presented herself for inspection once more. McGregor nodded, laid his hand on the bump to smooth it down and took Mirabelle’s gloved hand in his, placing his other arm around her waist to help her climb the steps. At the entrance a doorman hovered.

  ‘It’s my wife,’ he said. ‘Ma femme. She needs assistance. Une toilette.’

  Mirabelle tried to look pained. The doorman maintained an even expression.

  ‘The opera is for ticket holders only, monsieur,’ he insisted in decisive English.

  McGregor squared up. ‘Look. My wife is unwell. She’s having a baby.’ He sounded genuinely concerned. ‘You have to let us in. I’ll buy a bloody ticket if that’s what it takes.’

  The doorman looked uncomfortable. He did not want to say anything about evening dress, given the circumstances, but still. Mirabelle let out a low moan to add a little pressure. She put her hand on the man’s arm as if she could hardly stand upright. He clasped it.

  ‘Please. I beg you,’ she gasped in perfect French. That did the trick.

  ‘All right.’ The man relented, pushing open the door. ‘Upstairs. But the interval is about to begin. Please, be quick.’

  ‘Thank you.’ McGregor led Mirabelle inside.

  The hallway was magnificent. A wide carpeted stairway led upwards, splitting into two on a low landing, beyond which both sides rose to the height of the first balcony. Crystal chandeliers hung from the extensively muralled ceiling and lit the rows of pale columns that skirted the upper floor. The cornicing was gilded. Above they could just make out a crush bar being set up, bottles of champagne popping in anticipation of the interval. McGregor firmly guided Mirabelle upwards, his hand on her arm. Von der Grün would have seats in the circle or perhaps a private box. Either way they had to get up to the first level – if he came out for a drink it would be there.

  ‘What does this fellow look like?’ McGregor asked.

  Mirabelle laid her free hand on her belly. ‘I’m not sure,’ she admitted. ‘I’ve seen a photograph that I think was him, but it was an old one.’

  ‘Roughly?’

  ‘He must be in his early forties. In the picture, he had dark hair.’ Mirabelle grasped for more detail, realising that what McGregor had said about giving decent descr
iptions was entirely accurate. There had been nothing out of place in the old photograph – nothing unusual onto which she might hang the memory. ‘He looked quite ordinary,’ she admitted.

  ‘That’s no help to speak of.’ McGregor smiled. ‘Well, you have good enough recall for faces. Do you think you might recognise him?’

  ‘I hope so.’

  Keeping to the wall so that the doorman below wouldn’t be able to make them out, they ignored the signs for the lavatories and edged towards a set of mahogany double doors leading to the auditorium. Without conferring, they both made for the one that would bring them out at the back on the left-hand side of the theatre – the best spot from which to survey any room without being noticed. Mirabelle noted that McGregor was better at this than she might have expected.

  ‘Wait here,’ she instructed, and he peeled off as she cracked the door and went inside. The sound of music hit her in a wave. In the hallway it had sounded like someone singing a long way away, but inside it was so all consuming you could drown in it. It was amazing the difference a door made. Mirabelle froze for a second as an usherette rose from a seat at the end of the back row. It was dark and the girl didn’t appear to notice Mirabelle’s unusual footwear.

  ‘Madame?’

  ‘Je cherche mon mari,’ Mirabelle explained. ‘Il y a une urgence familiale.’

  The family emergency card generally worked. Slowly the girl took in Mirabelle’s apparently swollen belly and then her eyes continued downwards to the boots. She pursed her lips.

  ‘Son nom?’ she asked coldly, and then enquired as to where Mirabelle’s husband might be sitting.