She seemed flattered that he had remembered. ‘But it isn’t,’ she said almost smugly. ‘It’s true. And I pinched it in the most terrible circumstances. So terrible I feel quite proud in a grotesque sort of way.’
‘Tell me.’
‘Have you heard of the bomb that hit the Café de Paris in London?’ Miller had not.
‘It was three years ago. The Café de Paris in the West End, the most popular night spot and, so they boasted, the safest, because it was down below the ground. That night it was packed and I was in there with a naval chap I knew. The bomb came straight through the roof when everybody was dancing. The singer was at the microphone and this thing came through the ceiling.
‘It killed nearly two hundred, including the man I was with. His name was Barry … or was that his surname? Anyway, I never saw him again. One moment it was a foxtrot and he was holding me, and the next nothing.
‘I don’t remember anything until I woke up, trapped under a table. I could see the open sky through the roof. I felt okay, apart from a splitting headache. I lay there thanking God for saving me. All around were mountains of debris. The dust was choking. Rescuers were climbing in. I moved different bits of my body, my arms and my legs, and then my head – and when I moved it to the left and pushed some bricks away I saw a woman’s hand and this ring, this beautiful, rich ring was on her finger.’
He stared at her in the shadows. ‘And you took it.’
‘Looted it, would be the technical term,’ she said. ‘There was a lot of looting going on in the Blitz, believe me, a lot went on that night and the next day. People pocketing stuff.’
‘Why did you do it?’
‘Instinct, pure opportunism. But why not? It wasn’t going to be any use to that poor wealthy woman. She was dead. And her insurance would have covered it, if she had any sense, that is. So I took it. It is the most valuable thing I have.’ She turned to face him. Her bare breasts hung small. ‘I’ve never told anyone else,’ she said. ‘No one.’
It was one thirty when Miller left the small house. He turned and waved to her at the window, then walked to the US military car park by the railway station. Harcourt would be getting some sleep in the car. He showed his identification to the sergeant in the guard-post at the gate and walked to the car. Harcourt was not there.
Going back to the gate he asked if the guard had seen him. The man looked at a list on a clipboard. ‘He left just after you drove in here, sir,’ he said. ‘You went and he followed ten minutes later, at nine forty. He ain’t come back yet.’
Miller returned to the car and looked in the window. The guard had the keys and he walked back to get them as a local police car came slowly along the street, then stopped outside the compound. Miller observed it, his eyes narrowing. A uniformed sergeant and a middle-aged man in civilian clothes got out. Miller was fifty yards away. He watched. The guardhouse sergeant turned and pointed in his direction and, his heart going cold, he went towards them.
The British plain-clothes policeman said: ‘I’m Detective Constable Donald Fareham, sir. Reading police. There’s been an incident.’
Miller said: ‘What sort of incident, detective?’
The plain-clothes man, grey haired and weary, said: ‘A young black man was involved. He was attacked and I’m sorry to tell you he has died.’
Miller thought he was going to fall down. He felt the life drain from his face. He stood unbelieving. ‘Harcourt,’ he mumbled. ‘How can he be? He was here …’
‘He was your driver, sir, so I understand,’ said the uniformed sergeant. He made an attempt at hope. ‘There might be a chance that it’s the wrong fellow.’
‘He’s tall and black,’ Miller told them. He felt his voice separate from his body.
‘He’s black,’ answered the sergeant. ‘He was lying down when I saw him but he looked tallish.’
For a moment Miller thought he was being flippant. But his police face was loaded with genuine sadness. ‘It happened quite near here, sir. Just around the corner. About two hours ago.’
‘Who … who would have killed Harcourt?’ muttered Miller to himself. His face came up from his chest. ‘Jesus Christ, he was the most inoffensive …’
‘Unfortunately the others weren’t,’ said the detective. ‘Inoffensive. Witnesses, people in the flats over the shops, saw him being attacked by up to six of your white American GIs. Some of these residents went down in their night attire but they were too late. The victim was taken to hospital where he was pronounced dead on arrival.’
Miller began to cry into his hands. ‘Almighty shit,’ he said. His tears were running through his fingers. The guard looked embarrassed. The plain-clothes policeman said: ‘Would you feel up to coming with us and see if you can identify him, sir?’
‘Sure,’ said Miller, trying to wipe his face with his hands. ‘That’s the least I can do for him.’
They moved towards the police car and Miller went with them. ‘Has the US Provost been informed?’ he asked. He was trying to think rationally. He had to get to Suffolk.
‘We’ve told them,’ said the sergeant. ‘They’ll be along soon, I expect. But they’re all tied up with this invasion business.’
‘So was Harcourt,’ said Miller sadly. ‘He was driving me to join a unit tonight. We … we would have been on our way now.’
Christ, he thought, it’s my fault again. Butterfield and his buddies, and now Harcourt. Because he, Miller, had made the wrong choice, been in the wrong place. ‘I’ll have to write to his folks,’ he mumbled. ‘What the hell can I say to them?’
They drove through the vacant streets. ‘Here’s the hospital,’ said the sergeant. ‘The mortuary is around the back.’
They took him to the police station afterwards and they gave him some British coffee. While he was making his statement a lieutenant in the US Provost Marshal’s department arrived with two snowdrops. ‘My sympathies, captain,’ said the young officer.
Miller nodded. His mind was crammed with the nightmare. The walking into the hospital mortuary and being led to one of the two bodies laid out there. Someone had put a small American flag on the sheet over Harcourt. Miller had steeled himself for the moment when the sheet was pulled back but all he saw was the same Harcourt, stretched out with his everyday serene expression. Miller put out his hand and tenderly touched the black man’s cheek, then said: ‘Yes, that’s Private First Class Benji Harcourt. My buddy.’
At the police station the provost lieutenant said: ‘We have arrested a suspect. The guy is still drunk. It won’t be difficult to pick up the others. They’ll go to prison, captain. Maybe face the death penalty.’
‘And miss the rest of the war,’ said Miller.
‘I guess so.’
‘Well, I can’t,’ said Miller, straightening up. ‘I have to be a hundred and something miles away by morning. I’ll drive myself.’
The officer shook his head. ‘I don’t think you should, sir. You need some sleep.’
Miller regarded him aggressively. ‘I need to be there.’
‘We can provide a car and a driver, sir.’
‘Okay. Okay, thanks. I need to go back to my car before that.’
The two snowdrops were standing in the embarrassed manner of big men in a difficult situation, their hands behind their backs. They began to survey the interior of the British police station as if they thought they might learn something interesting.
The officer said: ‘We’ll take you back, captain, and get you transportation. Where is it you were heading?’
‘I still am,’ said Miller grimly. ‘It’s a US airbase in Suffolk. That’s north-east of London.’
‘Yes, sir, I know. I was in Suffolk.’
Miller said: ‘I must get there by noon.’
‘We’ll get you there. We need a statement but if you authorise it we can get it from the police here. We can go now.’
They went out. The night was becoming pale. On the way back to the military car park, as Miller sat beside him in the jee
p, the lieutenant said: ‘Those rednecks had drunk a gutful. Bartenders are under orders not to provide drink like that. They told him they were celebrating the invasion. Eventually he threw them out and they saw a black man, alone, and they attacked him. It’s too God-dam bad when you think about it.’
‘I can’t think about it any more,’ said Miller. ‘I don’t want to now.’
They pulled into the compound and the lieutenant went into the guardhouse to telephone. The guard handed Miller the keys to his car and he shuffled towards it. There was a faint glow of the early dawn on its roof. He unlocked it and stared in the shadowy interior as if he half expected Harcourt would be there. He climbed into the driver’s seat and sat there with his face in his hands, exhausted, broken. He was stirred by one of the military policemen tapping on the window. ‘Your transportation’s here, sir,’ he said when Miller opened the door. He looked at his watch. It was five o’clock and full daylight. ‘I’ll be right along,’ he said. The man went and Miller carefully opened the glove compartment on the driver’s side. There was only one thing, a thin book with the words: ‘Baptist Prayer-book.’ He slipped it into his pocket. He would send that to Harcourt’s mother.
He sat deeply in the rear seat. The driver woke him as they were entering the gates of the Suffolk base and he had to show his identification. The terrible realisation came back to him. It was eleven in the morning. He took his personal kit from the car and watched it drive away. He turned and in the dull daylight directly entered the main wooden building.
He opened the outer door and then the one at the end of a passage, almost knowing what to expect. They were all in the room, their flying kit around them, sitting in chairs, drinking coffee and trying to read magazines. The Dakotas were out on the tarmac. The pilots, Butterfield’s buddies, looked up and then looked down again. No one said a word. Suddenly he wanted to tell them about Harcourt. But he knew nobody would listen.
Chapter Twenty-one
Gilbert’s nightclub, Le Coq Noir in the centre of Rennes, had been reduced to charred rubble, which the rain then turned to a pile of black mud. ‘C’est la guerre,’ muttered the taxi-driver when Paget asked.
‘La guerre?’ sniffed Gilbert in his secret room within the clothing factory. They were making hats for German uniforms. It had taken the opening of several mysterious doors to reach him. ‘Not the everyday war, monsieur, the war we know. No, this was the black-market war. My club was burnt down because some criminals thought I was making more money than them.’ He frowned towards Paget as if he had just realised who he was. ‘What do you want now?’
Paget said hopefully: ‘I’ve been sent over to coordinate – well, help to coordinate – your people as far as sabotaging the railway links to the north when the invasion begins.’
‘A matter of days now,’ shrugged Gilbert. ‘The air waves are a babbling of secret messages. That ridiculous poem, “The sobbing of the violins in the autumn,” has been everywhere. I hear the Germans have been looking it up at the free library. Why couldn’t they have picked a couple of lines by Voltaire? Even if everybody knew what the signal was about – which most people do – we could at least be proud of it. Verlaine … pah.’
There was a pile of German hats in a corner of the dishevelled room. Gilbert put one on his head and sat reflectively on the single chair. He had a sudden idea and began studying Paget. ‘There is’, he said eventually, ‘something you could achieve.’
‘What is that?’
‘Four of our people are in the local police station. One is Antoinette Barre.’
‘Antoinette … oh …’
‘You know her, I believe.’
‘We hid together.’
‘Ah, yes, when you first came to France, wasn’t it?’
‘Is she in danger?’
‘Not at this moment. But she will be by tomorrow unless we get her out. The police, the French police, are only holding them on a vague suspicion at the moment. All the local Gestapo, except for a couple of unintelligent underlings in their office, have gone to Paris. Someone’s retirement dinner and they are not due back until tomorrow. But if they get their hands on any of our people in the police station then it could be serious. Between the four they know a lot. Fortunately, the Gestapo are not yet aware how important Mademoiselle Barre can be to them. She is, as you know, very beautiful in a wild sort of way. The boss Gestapo man would enjoy the interrogation.’
Paget felt himself shiver. ‘We’ve got to get them out.’
‘Exactement, monsieur.’ He drifted into pensiveness again. ‘The police station is not a fortress, just a police station, with French policemen, you understand, but next door is the German town barracks. This is not high alert or anything, just another group of troublemakers brought in for questioning. But it soon will be when they realise.’
‘How do we do it?’
‘We go in and snatch them,’ said Gilbert easily. ‘In five minutes they could be out. The fly on the appointment is that in the reception office is an alarm bell connected to the barracks next door. If somebody rings it then we could be trapped.’
Paget said: ‘What about the phones?’
‘We can deal with the phones. We have friends at the exchange who will need jobs after the war, and the phones can be conveniently jammed. But we need somebody who can pass as a German officer to go into the reception area and stop them sounding the alarm.’ He treated Paget to a stare full of meaning.
Paget muttered: ‘Heil Hitler.’
‘We have a smart uniform that would fit you perfectly. Some of the badges and that sort of thing are not correct but it will pass mustard.’
‘I don’t speak German.’
Gilbert’s shoulders drooped. ‘Now you say. I wonder why they send you people here.’
‘I wonder that myself,’ said Paget.
‘All you need is a few guttural words. Achtung! and that sort of thing.’ He looked exasperated. ‘You could try the sobbing of the violins in the fucking autumn.’
‘Do you want me to do this?’
‘You are the only one available at this moment.’
‘And expendable.’
‘The uniform will fit, with a little alteration here and there, and nobody will recognise you here.’
‘When does that happen? Soon, of course.’
‘Now. Maintenant. I will get someone to bring the uniform. One of the girls here can do the tucking in. In no time you will be transported to be an Obergruppenführer.’
‘Thanks,’ said Paget. ‘I’m really looking forward to this.’
‘Bon,’ said Gilbert half an hour later. ‘Excellent.’ He surveyed Paget in his German colonel’s uniform and nodded approvingly.
‘This revolver is loaded?’ Paget asked.
Gilbert said: ‘Of course. What good would it be otherwise? You cannot point it and say: “Boom!” Do not forget to release the safety catch.’ He sat on the single chair again. The girl who had been sewing the tunic of the uniform while Paget stood to attention had left. ‘She will want overtime for that,’ grumbled Gilbert. ‘Patriotism is not known here, only greed.’
He made the points on his fingers. ‘So, you march into the front foyer of the police station, and don’t forget Heil Hitler, the short version.’ He demonstrated bending his arm at the elbow and jabbing it upwards. ‘And performed while walking. There is no need to stop. The less time they have to study you the better. What next? Ah, yes. The reception office is on the right. In there the alarm bell is on the side of the filing cabinet to the right, against the window. Nobody must be allowed to go near that.’ One eyebrow went up. ‘If they do you know what to do.’
‘Shoot them,’ said Paget.
‘Quietly as you can. It’s a pity the gun does not come with a silencer. You keep them from the bell while the rest of our men, three and myself, go into the police station and overpower any resistance.’
‘How will you do that?’
‘Stabbing,’ said Gilbert as if it were obvious. ‘It is qu
ieter. As I told you they are mostly French police, so we hope it will not be necessary. But that is not your concern. You must just keep the men in the reception office away from the bell connected to the barracks. We have already arranged for the key to the cells. When you see or hear us make our escape with the prisoners, then you come after us. Only shoot somebody if necessary. Close the door of the room behind you and lock it. Outside will be two cars. Get in the second car and get away. It’s a simple plan.’
‘It sounds very easy,’ said Paget, unconvinced. ‘When do we start?’
Gilbert looked at his watch. ‘Now,’ he said.
He led the way from the inner room and they progressed through the several doors and work areas hung with materials and clothes, mostly hats and uniforms. When they were about to go out into the street Paget said: ‘You haven’t told me where the police station is.’
Gilbert’s eyes became dark. Then he said: ‘Through the market, straight up the street and you’ll see it. Outside the German flag is flying. Don’t go into the barracks by mistake; that would really put the cat among the pigeon shit.’
Paget straightened himself, smoothed the uniform, took a breath and went at what he hoped was a relaxed stride down the pavement. They had never taught them German marching. He must suggest it in a memo. The boots squeaked. Shopkeepers nodded pleasantly, he imagined knowingly, to him from their doorways and two German soldiers buying muddy potatoes in the market dropped some in their attempts to salute him.
Gilbert had vanished, but he almost comically reappeared behind one of the market stalls and handed a small turnip to Paget. ‘If you get into big trouble,’ he whispered, ‘pull the pin and throw it.’
The grenade had been fitted into the hollowed-out vegetable with the metal pin a little inset. Paget wondered if a German officer carrying a turnip might look conspicuous but he only received more nods from the market people as if to say what a nice turnip it was.
He walked the three hundred yards up the street to where the German flag was hanging beside a more modest tricolour outside the police station. In front there was a small courtyard surrounded by iron rails but there were no guards in the forecourt. Nor were there soldiers inside. The Germans clearly did not appreciate the value of their prisoners.
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