‘It was no trouble, dear,’ the housekeeper said. ‘Besides, I didn’t want mud dripping all over my clean floor, I’d not long scrubbed it.’ She helped Claire into her coat and then picked up Thomas’s rucksack. ‘There was not much I could do with that.’
Dr D’Aramitz opened the front door. A gust of wind took it out of his hands and it swung back on its hinges and crashed against the wall. He winced and looked up. Claire didn’t want to delay him getting back to his grandfather but she had to try one last time to find out if Dr D’Aramitz knew anything about Simone. ‘Thank you for introducing us to your grandfather,’ she said. ‘What he told us about Heinrich Beckman will clear my husband’s name. That is if we can find him.’
‘I’m sure you will.’
The wind was so strong it drove the snow horizontally. ‘I hope you’re right. Thank you, again,’ Claire said, ‘and please thank Dr Puel. She put out her hand, but instead of shaking it, Dr D’Aramitz gave her an envelope.
‘My grandfather would like to see you again tomorrow - in Saint Gaudens.’
‘When? Where?’ Claire asked.
‘It’s in the letter. I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘but I really must attend to my grandfather. Good night.’ Dr D’Aramitz closed the door.
Claire looked at the cream envelope and bit her bottom lip. ‘I wonder what it says?’
‘We’ll find out when we get to the hotel.’ Thomas took the letter from her and put it in his rucksack. Buckling the bag, he gave it a tap. Then, putting his arm around her, he pulled her to him. Staying close they lowered their heads and struggled to the car through what threatened to become a blizzard.
Thomas put Claire’s wine in front of her and drank the froth from the top of his beer before opening the rucksack and taking out the letter.
‘He knows Simone. I know he does,’ Claire said, ripping open the envelope excitedly and pulling the letter from it. ‘I bet you ten francs Doctor Puel knows her.’ While they thawed by the fire, Claire read the letter. ‘Huh!’ she said, ‘He doesn’t even mention Simone.’ She turned the letter over in case he had written something on the back. He hadn’t. Disappointed, she pushed the letter across the table to Thomas.
‘He’s going to the bank first, and then his solicitor, and he’ll be here at twelve.’
‘Here?’
‘Not here, not in this bar. He says I shall be finished with the bank and the solicitor by late morning. I should like to meet you at twelve o’clock in the restaurant next door to your hotel. Thomas read the letter again, to himself, then looked up at Claire. ‘Well? Why are you frowning?’
‘There is a restaurant next door to the hotel.’
‘Which is why he said he would meet us there.’
‘But how does he know we’re staying in this hotel. I didn’t tell him. Did you?’
‘No but--’ Thomas laughed.
‘What?’
‘It’s the only hotel in town. Come on,’ he said, ‘let’s go in for dinner. I don’t want you fainting on me again,’ he teased.
Doctors Puel and D’Aramitz were in the restaurant, seated at a table for four when Claire and Thomas arrived. ‘I hope we’re not late,’ Claire said.
‘You are not.’ Dr Puel held out his arm and stretched his hand to show a thin wrist beyond the sleeve of his jacket. He lifted his hand and squinted at his watch. ‘You are right on time, Madame. My grandson and I were early. Won’t you sit down,’ he said, indicating that Claire should sit in the chair nearest to him. ‘Monsieur Durand?’
Thomas sat in the remaining chair, between Claire and Dr D’Aramitz. Dr Puel picked up the menu. ‘This is one of my favourite restaurants in the Haute-Garonne area. The food is simple and wholesome. I would like steak tartare followed by rum baba, a liqueur to start, a bottle of red wine with my meal, several brandies afterwards, followed by a strong black coffee. Alas,’ he said, laughing, ‘my doctor would not allow that!’ He looked at his grandson and pulled an unhappy but comical face. When the waiter came to take their order, both doctors asked for soup, followed by poached fish and green vegetables. Claire ordered the same but with potatoes, and Thomas ordered a medium rare steak and frites.
When they had finished eating, Dr Puel ordered coffee. When it arrived, Claire poured each of them a cup while Dr Puel took a large brown envelope from his briefcase. ‘Now, to business,’ he said, handing the envelope to Claire. ‘This should clear your husband of treason. It contains everything you will need to prove that the so-called Swiss psychiatrist working under the name of Lucien Puel is the escaped criminal, Heinrich Beckman.’
Claire looked at the envelope with a mix of distaste and gratitude. ‘You won’t catch anything from it, my dear.’ A mischievous smile crept across the old doctor’s face. ‘It has been in my safety deposit box, in the vaults of the Banque Populaire de France since the month after--’
He took a second, bulkier envelope from his briefcase. Before giving it to Claire, he held it against his chest. ‘In here are the documents that will prove Heinrich Beckman killed my grandson Lucien and stole his identity. This envelope contains my grandson’s birth certificate, a photograph taken when he was born, and one of him receiving his doctor’s diploma a couple of weeks before he was murdered. It also contains the date the prison was liberated, the hospital report listing Lucien’s injuries, Beckman’s charred identity papers stating his name and rank, and a photograph which, although burned on one edge, clearly shows Beckman’s face. And,’ he took a shuddering breath, ‘the death certificate of my grandson, the real Doctor Lucien Puel.’
Claire took the envelope, warm from being held against the old man’s heart. ‘I don’t know what to say.’
‘There is nothing to say, my dear.’ With a shaking hand, he reached for his coffee. ‘Oh,’ the old doctor said, his eyes brightening, ‘there is also a duplicate doctors diploma from the medical department of the Université Paris Descartes, dated and signed the same as the original certificate, which was stolen. They sent it to me after Lucien’s death,’ he said with pride. ‘The documents are all dated and stamped by the various authorities.
‘Take this to keep them in,’ he said, giving Claire his briefcase. Claire nodded and sniffed back her tears. He lay his hand on the case. ‘In here is a sworn statement from me, signed and witnessed by Matthieu and my solicitor.’ He shook his head and lifted his hand as if to wave away the necessity of signatures. ‘It gives you the authority to use the documents in whatever way you see fit.’
Claire looked for sadness in the old man’s face. She only saw relief. ‘I will look after them for you,’ she promised.
‘Do not look after them for me, I no longer have a use for them. Look after them for yourself, for your husband, and for my late grandson, Lucien.’ Doctor Puel leaned forward and rested his elbows on the table. ‘Can you trust your husband’s commanding officer?’
Claire answered immediately. ‘I can. Commander Robert J. Landry is one of the most decent and honourable men--’
‘Then tell him what you have here. Clear your husband’s name first, and then take the documents to the war crimes tribunal and get justice for my grandson.’
Overwhelmed by such a huge responsibility, Claire looked at Thomas. He smiled to let her know she had his support, then gave Doctor Puel a questioning look. ‘Sir, I thought the war tribunals ended last year.’
The old doctor shook his head. ‘Halted, temporarily, but not ended. They will never end.’
‘Nor will the hunt for Nazis by the members of the Jewish Council.’ Doctor D’Aramitz, like Thomas had been silent until now. ‘The aristocratic father of the Resistance woman you are looking for is one of the leaders of the organisation.’
Claire sat in silence, stunned by this latest revelation. Then she said, ‘Simone is Jewish?’
‘Half Jewish. Her father, Guillaume Cheval, married a Russian Jew. Like her daughter, she was something of an enigma, a mystery. They say she was a beauty. Tall and slender with raven black hair. She was Russian
aristocracy. Her family escaped to France during the Russian Revolution.’
Doctor D’Aramitz sighed. ‘She was one of the first Jews to be taken to Auschwitz. Her daughter, who fought with the Resistance under the name of Simone, and who was imprisoned with your husband at Saint-Gaudens, lives with her father at Chateau Je Reviendrai, on the outskirts of a small village called Vignes de la Seine, a couple of miles from Fontainebleau.’
‘And is Simone her real name?’
‘No. It is Eleanor. Eleanor Cheval.’
When they had finished their coffee Doctor Puel insisted on paying the bill. Claire thanked him, and gently shook his hand. Then holding both hands, reluctant to let him leave, she kissed him. ‘Thank you for entrusting me with the treasured belongings of your beloved grandson.’ With tears in his eyes, he said again that he didn’t need them. ‘What I have of Lucien that is important is in here.’ He put his hand on his heart. ‘Goodbye, my dear.’
While he was shaking Thomas’s hand and wishing him good luck, Claire turned to Doctor D’Aramitz. ‘Thank you for taking me to meet your grandfather. I can’t tell you how grateful I am for the help you have both given me.’ She picked up the briefcase containing the documents that would free Mitch and put Heinrich Beckman behind bars, and said, ‘I shall see you both again, when this monster has been arrested and is locked up where he belongs. Until then, look after your grandfather.’
Doctor D’Aramitz said he would. ‘All this has been a strain on Grandfather’s health, but he was determined to do as much as he could to help you clear your husband’s name and know that justice would, at last, be served on Heinrich Beckman.’
Doctor D’Aramitz said he was pleased that they could help each other and looked forward to seeing Claire again. Then, when Dr Puel had finished speaking to Thomas, he turned to his grandson, and together they left the restaurant arm in arm.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Claire sighed. There was so much going on in her mind; so much she needed to do, people to speak to, questions to ask, she couldn’t think straight. So much had happened during the last three days it was impossible to take it all in. ‘I can’t do this on my own,’ she said, looking down at the briefcase on her lap. She wanted Thomas to say You don’t have to, I’ll be with you. She looked up at him. He looked stunned, bewildered, which she suspected was how she looked.
‘Brandy?’
Claire shot him a look of astonishment. ‘Is alcohol your answer to every problem?’
‘No, but it will help me, and you,’ he said, ‘to calm down and think. Yes or no?’
‘Yes!’ He called the waiter over and ordered two brandies. ‘The problem is mine, not yours,’ Claire said.
‘That’s where you are wrong,’ Thomas said, ‘it is also my problem.’
She wanted to shout for joy but was overcome by guilt. Thomas had a life in Paris, a job at the Sorbonne, how could she ask him to put it all on hold for any longer. ‘What do you mean, it’s also your problem? It’s my husband who is accused of being a traitor, and if he is having an affair with Simone, or Eleanor, whatever her name is, that’s my problem too.’
‘I agree. Your husband’s personal life is nothing to do with me,’ Thomas said, ‘but while you were saying goodbye to Doctor D’Aramitz, Doctor Puel asked me to help you and to keep you and the briefcase safe.’ The waiter brought two glasses of brandy, put one in front of Claire and one in front of Thomas.
‘He thinks because I’m a woman, I’m not capable,’ Claire said, and drank her brandy down in one.
‘I assure you he does not think anything of the kind. He thinks it could be dangerous getting the documents to Cheval, especially if Beckman has corresponded again with your husband’s commander. He said if there are two of us we can watch each other’s backs. He’s an old Resistance man. He thinks we’ll be safer as a couple, that’s all. And I agree with him.’ Claire tilted her head and shrugged. ‘Anyway, I gave him my word, so you’re stuck with me.’
Pleased she had someone she could trust to help her, Claire smiled with relief. ‘So, what now?’
‘I need to telephone my assistant at the University, get him to cover my lectures next week. Then I’ll have to telephone the principal.’ Thomas pulled a face.
‘Could you lose your job?’
‘No. I shouldn’t think so.’
‘I hope you don’t.’
‘I’ll give Antoinette and Auguste a ring too. Fill them in with what’s been happening.’
‘And I’ll make a couple of overseas calls,’ Claire said. ‘I ought to let Alain’s grandmother know I’m all right. I also need to check she still has the documents he sent her.’
‘Shouldn’t you telephone your husband’s commander first?’
‘I suppose so. The sooner he calls off the military dogs the better. I’ll ring him after I’ve talked to my daughter. It’s been three days since we last spoke. She won’t be happy with me.’ Claire looked up at Thomas, her forehead lined with worry.
‘She’ll forgive you once she knows her father is safe.’
‘But is he? We don’t even know where he is.’
‘No, but we soon will.’ Thomas pushed his chair away from the table and stood up. ‘Right, I’ll pay for the drinks. You go up to your room and book the calls to England. It may take some time to get an overseas line.’ He looked at his wristwatch, ‘I’ll see you in the hotel bar at six-thirty.’ Claire made no attempt to move. ‘What is it?’
‘I don’t want to telephone England from my room. There aren’t any outside lines. All calls go through reception and I don’t want that nosy Madame to know I’m calling England, let alone listen in to the call, which you can bet your life she will. It wouldn’t matter so much if she listened to what I say to Mitch’s grandmother, but I’ll need to tell Commander Landry about the documents Doctor Puel gave me if I’m going to convince him Mitch isn’t the traitor.’
Thomas’s brow creased in thought. ‘Railway station! Every station has telephone booths. I’ve called all over Europe from my local station.’
That’s in Paris, Claire thought, this is the back of beyond. Still, it was the better option. The call she needed to make to Mitch’s commander was a matter of life and death - her husband’s life or death.
The station at Saint-Gaudens was a commuter station, surprisingly big for such a small town - and it was rush hour. From the main concourse, Claire watched people in droves spilling out of city trains onto the platforms, running to other platforms, and jumping onto other trains. It was where city workers changed trains to go somewhere else by the look of the swarms of people running from large locomotives to catch smaller local trains.
Claire spotted a bank of five telephones along the east wall by the ticket office. She stepped into the middle booth, Thomas took the one next to her.
She thought she would never hear what the recipients of her telephone calls said, but bedlam was happening on the platforms, not on the concourse. Inside the booth it was remarkably quiet. She picked up the telephone and put two francs into the metal coin box. A second later a voice asked her what number she wanted. She asked for the international operator. It wasn’t long before an operator with a Parisian accent asked her which country. Claire said England and a minute later a tired voice with a London accent said, ‘What number would you like to be connected to, caller?’
Claire gave the operator the number of the Foxden Hotel. From depositing two francs, to being connected to the English operator, had taken five minutes. At this rate I’ll be cut off before I get through to Bess, she thought. Then she heard a faint ringing in the background. The operator said, ‘Putting you through now, caller.’
The next voice Claire heard was that of her sister. ‘Good afternoon, Foxden Hotel.’ Seconds later Bess had dispatched her husband Frank off to find Aimée. When Aimée came on the line she asked a dozen questions, hardly giving Claire time to answer one before she asked another. Thomas was right, believing her mother was close to finding her father and br
inging him home, Aimée forgave her for not telephoning for three days.
Claire went through the same rigmarole with the French and English operators before she was connected to Mitch’s grandmother. She didn’t have to wait long for the telephone to be answered. It rang only once before Esther picked up the receiver.
As soon as she heard Esther’s voice, Claire knew something was wrong. ‘Hello? Hello?’ Esther said, not giving Claire time to speak. ‘Is anyone there?’
‘It’s Claire.’
‘I can’t hear you,’ she said, ‘It is a bad line.’
‘Are you on your own?’
‘No! I still can’t hear anything. Now the confounded thing sounds as if it’s in the middle of a storm,’ Claire heard her say, her voice directed away from the telephone.
‘I understand. I wanted to tell you that I think I’ve found what I was looking for, and I hope you are keeping yourself safe.’
‘Perfect!’ Esther spat, in an angry voice. Then, quieter, as if she had turned her head away from the telephone’s mouthpiece. ‘First, all I could hear was the sound of wind rushing down the line, now it’s clicking like a pair of lovesick crickets.’ The telephone went dead.
Claire left the booth after only making two calls. Deep in thought, she strolled across the ticket hall and sat on a wooden bench to wait for Thomas. An idea came to her and she took a pen and notebook from her handbag. By the time she had finished writing, Thomas had finished the call to his work colleague in Paris and had joined her. ‘Where’s the nearest post office?’ she asked.
‘No idea.’ He looked around and shouted Excuse me to a porter who was pulling a wooden cart piled high with suitcases. The man stopped and Thomas ran over to him. ‘The post office is on a street parallel with this one,’ he said, on his return. ‘Why?’
Someone was with Mitch’s grandmother when I telephoned and the phone was tapped. The clever old thing pretended she couldn’t hear me and complained about clicking. I told her I thought I’d found what I was looking for. If someone was listening in, do you think that was too obvious?’ Claire bit her lip. ‘I was more specific with Aimée.’ Claire looked into Thomas’s face. ‘We are close to finding Mitch, aren’t we?’
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