by David Gilman
Mitchell was led into the office and made his enquiry about the closed bookshop to the woman who ran the library.
‘I don’t care for speaking to strangers no matter who sent you. What did you say your name was again?’ said the refined-looking woman behind her ornate desk. She was in her fifties, Mitchell guessed, but could pass for a woman ten years younger. By the look of her clothing and jewellery, Eva de Gerlier was from the upper echelons of Paris society, though Mitchell could not place her American accent. He didn’t have the ear for the nuances of American inflection but he guessed she was East Coast and had married an upper-class Frenchman.
‘Garon, Pascal Garon,’ said Mitchell.
Her hand moved effortlessly across a piece of writing paper, the pen accustomed to being caressed. She laid aside the pen and glanced up at Mitchell. ‘Is your name of any interest to the Germans? Would they be pleased if I handed them this sheet of paper? I ask because I have no truck with the Resistance. We obey the rules here and that is why we are still open.’
Mitchell glanced around the office, which was at the rear of the library. Hundreds of books were stacked on the floor against the wall beside French windows that looked out on to a small garden. When he had climbed the elaborate staircase to the woman’s office more books had been stacked neatly on every step.
‘I hadn’t realized you had so many books here.’
‘More than a hundred thousand, and why would you?’
‘I used to live in Paris.’
‘Oh? No longer?
‘I taught at the university.’
‘And I moved back here soon after the Occupation. But I know Dr Burton socially and he has never mentioned your name.’
‘How exactly has the library managed to stay open?’
She studied him for a moment. ‘You think we collaborate?’
Mitchell shrugged. ‘Your clothes are expensive; so’s your jewellery. As far as I can see not much has changed in Paris since the Germans arrived. The fashion houses around the Place Vendôme and the Ritz still cater for richly dressed women. People still make enough money from looking after industrialist’s wives, actresses, German officers’ women and those who collaborate with the enemy.’
‘Very well, M’sieu Garon… if that is indeed your name. Your accent is not that of a Parisian. I suspect you are an Englishman. Your manner is… too polite.’ She raised an eyebrow as if to say, Not so? ‘We are protected by the Germans. You speak German?’
‘A little.’
‘Did you teach languages?’
‘Mathematics.’
‘Ah, then your vocabulary might be limited. Bibliotheksschutz.’
‘Library protection?’ said Mitchell.
She nodded. ‘Quite so. Dr Hermann Fuchs guarantees the safety of all the libraries in occupied Europe. I met him at a conference before the war. We are not allowed to admit Jews, which is a great pity because they are some of our most loyal subscribers, and there are certain authors that are banned. If we do this then we are allowed to function without any problems.’
‘And yet they destroyed the libraries in Poland when they invaded.’
‘And arrested and murdered the teachers. It seems we have both been spared.’
‘And lucky. One of the men who work for you is Jewish. You shelter him. Frank Burton told me he hid him in the hospital for a while and he also told me you could be trusted. And yes, I dare say the Germans would be interested in my name, sooner or later.’
She appraised him again and her icy demeanour softened. She smiled. For the second time that day a name on a piece of paper of interest to the police and Gestapo was burnt in an ashtray.
‘The woman who closed her bookshop… I know where she is.’
37
Mitchell arrived at Madame Belvoir’s rooms above a clothing-repair shop with Peter Thompson. They explained who had sent them and the urgency of finding Alfred Korte. The seventy-three-year-old bookshop owner leant her elbows on a small cloth-covered table, stained with food and wine spillage, where a dozen novels were stacked open. A chipped saucer served as an ashtray, almost full with burnt-down stubs, and she tipped what was left of a half-bottle of red wine without a label into her glass as she listened to the men’s explanation. The small apartment had a curtained-off bed and smelt of cat urine. The windows were closed, the April sun beaming through one small pane in a shaft of stifling warmth that cut through the haze of cigarette smoke.
‘Why would I know where he is?’ she said finally.
‘Madame,’ said Thompson, ‘I was supposed to help him escape from your bookshop. But when I got there the place was crawling with Germans. The streets had been cordoned off and the situation appeared impossible.’
She succumbed for a moment to a chesty, rattling cough. She drank more wine. ‘I remember being told that someone was coming. Résistants made no mention of an Englishman.’ She shrugged. ‘So what. It was too late. The Germans and the police raided my bookshop and the next-door milliner’s. I doubt they were looking for the old man. Just a random nuisance call.’ She glared at Thompson. ‘And no one ever came back. Got scared, did you?’
‘Yes,’ Thompson admitted.
Madame grunted. ‘You young people don’t know what fear is. I hid him for weeks despite their searches. Then it became too much. I had nothing but damned German customers. Officers mostly, but they scared off my French regulars. Not that anyone could afford books any more.’ She sighed. ‘Sooner or later they’d have found him. Anyway, I didn’t want to make money from the Boche.’
‘And then?’ Mitchell said.
‘And then what was I supposed to do? Kick him on to the street? He was an educated man. He read widely. We discussed literature.’
‘Here?’ said Mitchell.
‘Of course here. Where do you think? He slept on the couch.’ She inhaled smoke and then glared at them. ‘There was no impropriety.’
‘Of course not, Madame Belvoir,’ said Thompson, dismissing the image such a liaison suggested.
‘Then where is he now?’ asked Mitchell.
‘Dead most likely. He got sick a few weeks back. I got him to hospital.’
‘Not the American Hospital?’ Mitchell said. If so, the irony would be almost too much to bear.
She looked at Mitchell as if he were an idiot. ‘No, of course not. Their wards are full.’
Mitchell hid his disappointment.
Madame stubbed out what was left of her cigarette. ‘The Hôtel-Dieu took him.’
*
Mitchell phoned Frank Burton from a kiosk and asked him to send Jean Bernard across to the Hôtel-Dieu. Madame Belvoir had given the German her late husband’s identity card and his name, Yves Belvoir. One elderly man staring back at anyone checking a photograph in an identity document would not look so different from another. What else could I do? she had proclaimed. She did not have access to forgers. She did the best she could. The rest was in God’s hands.
‘All right,’ Mitchell told Thompson. ‘We’re going to get him and then we’ll take him to the American Hospital until I can arrange a plane for him.’
‘The Hôtel-Dieu is opposite the Préfecture de Police. It’s a hot spot for Gestapo and police snap inspections. It’s too dangerous. We must find another way.’
‘Hold your nerve,’ said Mitchell. ‘I have a contact at both hospitals. Once we’re in we will find a way out.’
‘I can’t. I’m sorry. It’s a bloody death trap. Right opposite the Préfecture,’ he said again for emphasis.
Mitchell’s heightened sense of anxiety was being sorely tested. If he could get Alfred Korte out of France then he would have accomplished what his masters in London wanted and he would then be free to concentrate on harassing the enemy and finding his daughter. ‘A few more hours, Peter. That’s all. And then you can go home.’
Tears welled in Thompson’s eyes. ‘All right,’ he whispered.
*
Mitchell, Ginny and Thompson made their way towards the hospit
al along side streets, avoiding the main thoroughfares. They had just turned a corner when Mitchell saw a Traction Avant angled across the street blocking access to the hospital. A half-dozen gendarmes were on the opposite pavement, their batons held in extended arms as they herded pedestrians towards the opposite wall where plainclothes Gestapo were conducting an identity-card search. A German lorry had spilt its cargo of soldiers and they spread along the length of the nearside pavement.
Mitchell’s throat tightened as his heartbeat quickened. Thompson looked paralysed, his stricken face gaunt with fear. ‘Keep walking,’ Mitchell insisted. He grabbed Thompson’s arm, forcing him to keep pace. Mitchell could feel the resistance in his body and he feared Thompson’s panic would make him run and then he and Ginny would be immediately suspect.
‘Don’t say anything,’ insisted Mitchell. ‘We are taking you to the hospital because you’re sick. If they search us they’ll find our weapons. Be ready to use them.’
Before Thompson could object gendarmes ushered them forward into the shuffling line being processed by the plainclothes Gestapo officer. The number of people snared in the round-up meant the inspection was being processed with quick efficiency. The man who was creating so much fear looked to Mitchell’s eyes to be young enough to be studying at the Sorbonne instead of inflicting terror simply by his presence on the streets of Paris.
Leitmann never broke the rhythm of checking those shuffling past him. The card inspected, the face checked, the card returned and the individual moved along. Mitchell felt the perspiration tickle his spine. Thompson was shaking uncontrollably, his hairline damp with sweat. Mitchell removed his hat without being told so that his face could be checked against the photograph on the identity card. Ginny was a couple of paces behind him.
Leitmann looked at Mitchell’s companion. Thompson’s hand trembled as he offered his identity card. Mitchell tensed.
Leitmann plucked the card from Thompson’s hand. ‘What’s wrong with you?’
Thompson stuttered badly as if trying to form words.
‘He’s been ill for a week,’ said Mitchell. ‘He works in the abattoir. We think he’s caught something off diseased meat. We’re hoping it’s not contagious.’
As Leitmann took an involuntary step back one of the approaching soldiers interrupted the search. ‘Herr Leitmann, there is a radio message for you to return to headquarters immediately.’
Irritated, Leitmann turned on the soldier. ‘I’ll decide when I leave. Tell them another hour,’ he said, distracted, tossing the identity card into Thompson’s hand. ‘Get him inside. You people are stupid. He shouldn’t even be on the street. Move!’
Mitchell’s identity had miraculously been missed. He half carried Thompson through the barrier of soldiers and was soon clear of the inspection. The soldier who had borne the message to the Gestapo officer must have said something further because Mitchell heard the Gestapo man raise his voice. ‘Be quiet! I’ve told you – I’ll go when I’m good and ready. I will determine what has priority here.’
Mitchell steadied Thompson as Ginny joined them. ‘Wait across the street at the café. Once I have what we came for we’ll have to play it by ear.’ Ginny turned at once: she knew not to question Mitchell at such a critical time. As she went across the street Mitchell gave Thompson an encouraging smile. ‘It’s almost over. Well done. Come on now, couple of deep breaths and we’re home and dry.’
Thompson put a brave face on it and returned Mitchell’s smile. ‘Sorry, old man, I flunk it when I think of what those bastards would do to me. I’m a dreadful coward, you know.’
‘No, you’re not,’ Mitchell told him, his voice genuinely warm. ‘A coward would not be able to do what you have done.’
38
When they stepped inside Jean Bernard was waiting. The long corridor appeared to stretch the full length of the building. It was strangely hushed as their shoes clattered along the marble floor. Mitchell quickly introduced Jean Bernard to Thompson and explained to the French doctor that it had been Thompson who had tried to help the fugitive German scientist in the past. Mitchell’s voice was barely louder than a whisper in the vastness of the corridor.
‘We must exercise caution, Pascal. Not all the nurses here are anti-German.’
‘How ill is the old man?’ said Thompson.
‘He had pneumonia and he was malnourished but from what I’ve seen on his chart he has made a good recovery. He will still be weak but I believe he will be strong enough to travel,’ Jean Bernard said as he ushered them through two large wooden swing doors into a five-bed ward. ‘We must be careful. There’s a ward nurse I’ve been warned about. The hospital thinks she’s in the pay of the police or Gestapo and her shift is going to start soon. And a man was murdered here recently, shot in his bed. No one will talk about it but everyone is looking over their shoulder. There doesn’t seem to be much doubt that it was the SS or the Gestapo.’ He pointed to a man in the nearest bed and quickly pulled a privacy screen around him. ‘This is the man you’re looking for.’
Peter Thompson stepped forward and sat in the chair next to where Alfred Korte lay half raised. He smiled when he saw the tall Englishman and reached out his hands to clasp Thompson’s.
‘You came back,’ he said, his accent unmistakably German. ‘I knew you would.’
‘I’m sorry it took me so long, but when I came to get you at the bookshop the place was swarming with soldiers and Gestapo.’
Korte patted Thompson’s hand. ‘Yes, it would have been impossible for you to get me out then but I was looked after. Now that you are here what is going to happen?’
Thompson nodded towards Mitchell. ‘This man will get you to England. It will take a few more days yet, but you must trust him.’
‘Very well. If you say that I must, then I will.’ He gave a nod of acknowledgement to Mitchell.
‘We should not spend too much time here right now,’ said Jean Bernard. ‘These are not official visiting hours. Pascal, do we know whether this Yves Belvoir is on the Gestapo or police wanted list?’
It had not occurred to Mitchell that this might be the case. He knew nothing about Madame Belvoir’s late husband. Had he ever been arrested for any petty crime? Or questioned for any reason by the authorities? If he had then Alfred Korte could no longer risk using Belvoir’s documents. It would take only a random identity check and the old man would be arrested.
‘I don’t know.’ Mitchell felt the uncertainty squirm in his stomach. They were minutes away from getting Korte out on to the street.
Jean Bernard nodded. ‘I thought it unlikely you would have had time to check. A man of similar age died last night. Every day the police collect the papers of anyone who’s passed away. They haven’t been here yet, but to give you a chance on the streets I have swapped his identity documents with the dead man’s.’ Jean Bernard smiled. ‘Just in case. As far as I know the dead man is not on any police list.’
‘How do we get Korte out?’ said Mitchell.
‘A mortuary van will be waiting at the front for the body. They are bound to stop the driver and check the van. That’s the best diversion we can hope for.’ He handed Mitchell a folded sheet of official-looking paper. ‘This is a duplicate death certificate I signed for Alfred Korte. If you are discovered and they find this on you then at least it gives him a chance.’
Jean Bernard and Peter Thompson soon had the elderly Korte dressed in his suit and overcoat. He was unsteady on his feet but Mitchell supported him as they eased him out of the ward and down the long corridor towards the entrance.
‘I must get back and make sure all the paperwork is in order,’ said Jean Bernard. He shook hands with the three men. ‘Pascal, I will speak to you again soon, no doubt. And you, sir,’ he said to Korte, ‘I will see you sooner than you think.’ He turned back towards the ward.
‘What did he mean?’ asked Korte.
‘You’ll know soon enough,’ said Mitchell. ‘Peter, say your goodbyes to Herr Korte. You’ve done everything
I have asked of you. Go home with my blessings.’
‘You have family?’ said Korte.
‘Yes. They are waiting for me,’ said Thompson.
‘Ah, good. Then hurry back to your wife and children. I am grateful that you returned and brought this gentleman with you. I will soon be in England thanks to your courage.’
‘Thank you, sir. You’re very kind,’ said Thompson and with a final nod of farewell turned down the steps towards the street.
‘Now, what is your name?’ said Korte, turning to Mitchell.
‘Pascal Garon,’ said Mitchell.
‘Then where are we going now, M’sieu Garon?’
‘Out the back door,’ said Mitchell.
*
It was unclear to Ginny Lindhurst what happened in the minutes following Mitchell and the elderly man reaching the street. She watched from the café opposite as the mortuary van’s doors were closed and its driver eased it out of the rear entrance. No sooner had the van reached the street than the police and German cordon shifted. Perhaps it was sheer bad luck or maybe someone in the hospital suspected something was wrong. Whatever the reason, the Gestapo and police stopped the mortuary van and hauled out the driver. They checked the man’s papers and then the plainclothes Gestapo agent had him open the rear doors. Voices were raised and then a body was removed on a stretcher and the Gestapo agent instructed a German Feldgendarme to check the dead man against a pocketbook of photographs. She heard him answer that it was no one they were looking for and that the name on the death certificate was someone called Yves Belvoir. By the time the soldiers eased the body back into the mortuary van Mitchell and the man with him were fifty metres past the cordon moving away from the snap inspection. Leaving her table, Ginny moved further away into the side street. Behind her a baker was unloading his van at the back door of the café. Across the street the soldiers and gendarmes began to spread out again. She saw that Thompson was clear of the cordon. He glanced her way and gave a quick smile. He was out of danger. She looked to her right and saw two gendarmes looking down the street to where Mitchell and his slow-moving charge had stopped; the elderly man, weakened by the exertion, had slumped against the wall. Mitchell looked back as the gendarmes called for him to stay where he was.
