In at the Kill Page 13

  ‘Go after him.’ Nodding – but uncertainly. Vendu meant a person who’d sold out. Michel’s dark jaws chomping. She explained, ‘Standard procedure would be to recall me. And they may have something on the go already – or after they hear about it from me may set something going. They’ll want him tracked down, for sure – and whatever you’ve found out, I’ll pass on – obviously – when I make this contact in Nancy – which I hope—’

  ‘We’ll go into that presently.’ De Plesse had cut in without looking at her, but with a glance round at the other members of his family – the boy doing homework, Roxane just sitting. Silvie with sewing on her lap but hands folded on it. His glance might have been to tell them that their presence could be dispensed with shortly, if not sooner… Adding, ‘When you’ve had that second helping, Michel. That is, if you wouldn’t prefer to put this off to the morning, er – Justine – or Rosalie, if that’s what we call you now…’

  ‘Rosalie is my real name. Justine’s the one on the papers. No – I’d like to hear about it now.’

  Silvie put in, ‘You are looking tired, Rosalie.’

  ‘Twice the girl she was, believe me.’ Michel studying her. He had kind eyes, she thought, but a moment ago you wouldn’t have thought so. He’d noticed the way de Plesse had cut her short, then the slightly contemptuous Or Rosalie, if that’s what we call you. She’d seen a flicker of warning: that second time, she’d thought for a moment he wasn’t going to let it go. But he was wiping the last of the stew out of his plate with bread – quick shake of the head at Silvie’s offer to refill it, then glancing back at Rosie: ‘Hair’s grown a lot, too. Can’t say the colour suits you.’

  ‘Disguise, supposedly. Since I’m featured in street posters?’

  A nod. ‘I’ve seen some.’

  ‘But the good thing – marvellous thing – at least, if I’m reading it correctly—’

  ‘I can guess – the other girl they’re looking for. The one you told me you were hoping might have escaped, by way of the river?’

  ‘It must be her. If they’re looking for her as well as for me – maybe assuming we’d be together—’

  ‘Might well assume that. I think in their shoes I would. Putting you together on the same poster – an encouragement to reward-seekers—’

  ‘Reward?’

  ‘A million francs each. But – yes, she must have got away. Only thing is – to be completely realistic, Rosalie – if they’d caught her since—’

  ‘She might still be on the posters. Rather than reprint them with me alone.’ She nodded. ‘Even if they haven’t caught her, though, there’s the question of how far she’d have got – where she might be now.’

  ‘In any case it’s closer to good news than the other kind.’ Michel took a swallow of wine. ‘But –’ pointing at her with his head – ‘tell you, Raoul – to my dying day I’ll remember it – with the most intense – well, astonishment, for one thing, but also – you know, a very happy thing? To have found that lifeless body – almost lifeless – and now after just a month, hey presto, to have with us this highly personable young lady – alive and kicking and – in my view, much more than just attractive—’

  ‘Oh, please—’

  ‘And I may say extremely brave. What this young lady did – on top of the horrors she’d already been through – I personally would call the height of courage. So to have had the privilege – Luc and I – of being responsible for this – this miracle—’

  ‘Hear, hear.’ Luc had been quiet, just listening. He raised a glass with no more than a drip of wine left in it: ‘To our foundling!’

  Enfant trouvé, was the expression he’d used. Michel watching her over his own half-empty glass: Rosie meeting that calm regard, appreciating that the exaggeratedly complimentary remarks he’d been making would have been largely for the benefit – or rather, reproval – of de Plesse, a counter to his rudeness. Michel was a man and a half, she thought. Asking her as he put his glass down, ‘The bullet-wound in your shoulder – turned out all right, has it – no bones smashed, or—’

  ‘Collar-bone was fractured – so the sage-femme told me. The bullet passed just grazing it, was actually diverted downward slightly.’

  ‘I don’t believe that, Rosalie.’

  ‘Well – it’s what she found – said—’

  ‘Did she say you had steel collar-bones?’

  ‘All I know is it went in here, behind, and came out lower down – here—’

  ‘I remember very well how it looked. But that’s nonsense, what the woman told you. Angle of entry might have been downward, I suppose – if you’d been angled backward at that moment – sort of staggering, might have been?’

  ‘Might have. Doesn’t seem likely, but – one doesn’t remember every split second. And the sage-femme was quite certain.’

  ‘Quite wrong, I’d say. Fixed you up well enough, obviously, but I’d guarantee the collar-bone wasn’t touched. A bullet would have smashed it, not been deflected, you’d have been in a far worse state. Of course it would have hurt badly, having torn through muscle – you’d have believed her—’

  ‘Not sure I still don’t – despite your own obviously extensive knowledge—’

  ‘I know a little. Rudimentary – as one needs in the field, rough and ready – just to get by.’

  ‘It’s true.’ Luc nodded. ‘Enough to get by.’

  She’d smiled at Silvie. ‘May they both continue getting by.’

  ‘Hah.’ Michel picked up his glass. ‘Let’s drink to her again. Here, Luc, I’ll spare you a millilitre of this…’

  * * *

  The family had gone to bed, and Luc went up too. He was leaving in the morning, for Verdun and St Mihiel, ostensibly on de Plesse company business. Michel would be leaving too but not so early.

  Luc had kissed her hand. ‘Goodnight, and good luck.’

  ‘You too. And thanks – for everything, including getting me here.’

  As he’d told her earlier, he was taking over the top Maquis-liaison job from Michel up in this area – in whatever stretch of territory it was. They had other paras out there in the field, she’d gathered, instructing and organizing. Watching them from where she was sitting at the table – Luc on his way to hit the sack, Michel crossing the room beside him with a hand on his shoulder, talking quietly, a thought which she’d had earlier came back to mind – the similarity between him – Michel – and Lise’s Alain Noally. Michel was younger of course – Noally’s wiry hair had been grey as well as unruly, in conformity perhaps with what she’d learnt was his public image – as an artist of some stature, a sculptor, well known in France even before the war apparently. By the time of his betrayal and death a couple of months ago he must have been at least in his middle fifties. Twice Lise’s age, therefore.

  Noally and Michel could have been brothers – with that gap of age between them, of course. But it wasn’t only a physical likeness – from as little as she knew or had known either of them, they’d have been brothers under the skin as well.

  Tell Lise, she thought. One day. Touch wood…

  He was coming back to them. De Plesse pushing a chair out for him with his foot: Michel’s hand on the table then, taking his weight as he let himself down. All three were smoking. De Plesse leant across, moved a saucer-ashtray to where they could all reach it.

  ‘Go ahead, Michel.’

  A nod. Sitting back, exhaling smoke, dark eyes on Rosie. ‘First thing – Troyes. On the Seine, one hundred and eighty kilometres from Paris. Southern end of the district of Champagne. As I said, I’ve just come from there, from this man Dufay. Incidentally, I’m working a patch of country to the south and east – Dijon at its centre, more or less. You’re thinking I needn’t have told you this, but it’s relevant, in a way. First though – most important for you to know, is that there is no SOE presence at all now in that region. There was a réseau, a very active one I gather, but – gone.’ He drew deeply on his Gauloise. ‘Tell you also, Rosalie – in the weeks sin
ce we met I’ve had some idea of co-opting you as my pianist. Damn cheek, eh? But not really – I’d have asked you first, obviously, and then – if you’d agreed – asked my people in England to approach SOE. You told me you’re a pianist, and we’re short of them – as Raoul here knows. Anyway –’ shake of the shaggy head – ‘it wouldn’t have worked. I’d thought it might have suited you, a basis on which they might have allowed you to remain in the field – only for a few weeks, you see. But it wouldn’t have worked, because of the distances involved – which is why I’m going up to Luxembourg tomorrow.’ Addressing this to de Plesse. ‘Collect one pianist. Leaving Luc with one fewer in his area. Too bad… Anyway – the Marchéval factory, Rosalie. Not in Troyes itself but to the west of it, a village called St Valéry-sur-Vanne. Little place on a little river with Marchéval’s, you might say its beating heart. To be honest, someone else said it.’ A nod to de Plesse: ‘Your man, Dufay. Incidentally, Rosalie, it’s also close to the Forêt d’Othe.’

  ‘Maquis country?’

  A nod. ‘So I was told. But another thing Raoul discovered for me through his business connections, before I went down there, is that the factory has been on war production for the Boches right from the start, and still is.’

  ‘To be expected, surely. Proprietors of manufacturing industry don’t have much option?’

  ‘None. Well, except – Peugeot, for instance – down near Montbéliard – they were making turrets for Boche tanks. London ordered it blown up, and who helped? Well – Robert Peugeot… Anyway – next item: this guy Victor Dufay is a leading résistant with a business similar to Raoul’s, only he specializes in borehole pumping systems. It was he who told me that the SOE réseau had folded. He also gave me the name of a colleague of his who’s more closely on the spot, in St Valéry-sur-Vanne. A Resistance colleague, that is – in fact an hotel-keeper, proprietor of L’Auberge la Couronne. His name’s Jacques Craillott, his wife Colette is also an active résistante. In the morning, Rosalie, I’ll jot all the names down for you – unless you’ve already committed them to memory?’

  ‘Might check in the morning, see they’re still in it.’

  He’d nodded. ‘Auberge la Couronne, Jacques and Colette Craillot. If you should happen to be there, and need a safe-house. Which I imagine you would. Introduction to them would be made by Dufay. OK?’

  ‘As I said, it’s unlikely they’ll let me—’

  ‘In which case you’ll soon be in London briefing others – huh?’

  She nodded. ‘Maybe… What sort of age are the Craillots?’

  ‘He’s in his forties, Dufay said. I didn’t visit St Valéry. Time, distance – had to push along. I have a sketch of the place, though, which Dufay made for me, on this second visit… Oh, by the way, Luc mentioned the papers we got for you aren’t so good, you’ll need new ones?’

  ‘Actually, may not. At least I hope…’

  ‘Sounds like she’s going to save you trouble, Raoul.’

  ‘Well – good… But – Michel – you found you had a good connection with Dufay, you were saying?’

  ‘Yes.’ Michel turned back to her. ‘I’ll tell you where to find his place in Troyes – or Raoul will. But just for more background information – my crowd have run some clandestine operations from time to time, and one not long ago was to knock out the Radio Paris transmitters at Allouis, near Melun. The sortie was commanded by a good friend of mine, and Dufay was at this end of it, met them when they dropped. It was a long-range job – not from Troyes, long way north of there, but still several nights’ hard slog to the target, lying up all day, so forth. Those transmitters had been jamming RAF signals; our boys blew up the main pylons and got away again without a scratch. Well – success and a mutual friend makes for a good rapport, which Dufay and I now have. I told him you might turn up and that you were – something special, so – use my name as the password, you’ll be welcomed. OK?’

  Looking at him: ‘So what is it?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Something more than just Michel?’

  ‘Oh.’ He laughed. ‘Michel Jacquard.’ A frown: ‘Do I know yours? Other than Rosalie – which you say is—’

  ‘Justine Quérier?’

  ‘Ah. If you stick to that—’

  ‘I think so.’ A glance at de Plesse: ‘If a few small changes could be made. The photo – a new one, obviously – also date of birth, and the paper’s date of issue?’

  He shrugged. ‘If that’s all…’

  ‘If it could be done quickly, though. Tomorrow? Wouldn’t be more than a hour or two hours’ work, would it, for an expert? Except for the photo. And conceivably one or two of the forms may have been superceded – which your expert would know. Well – you would. But even the photo could be done in a day – I would have thought—’

  ‘It’s possible.’

  ‘And your wife said something about a hairdresser.’

  ‘She did, did she?’ Slight shrug. ‘Well, we’ll make that her department.’ A glance at Michel: ‘Go on?’

  ‘Yes. Well… As you ascertained, Raoul, Marchéval’s are primarily makers of metal tubes – pipes, cylinders, so forth. And the factory’s never been bombed. One reason is that it’s part of the village, workers’ cottages all around it – in an air attack there’d be women and children killed. It wouldn’t be an important target anyway – right? Dufay thought not, anyway. Important to them locally, but that’s about all. There’s never been any sabotage either – not that he knows of, and this he thought would be accounted for by (a) the target’s lack of importance, (b) sabotage brings reprisals, and in a small, isolated place like that – well, we know how they handle such things, huh?’

  ‘A ratissage. Shootings, burnings.’

  ‘It’s been known, hasn’t it? But now listen. After my first visit, Dufay thought he should look into the situation at St Valéry. And we’re lucky he did – that my visit got him off his backside to that extent. D’you know what they’re turning out there now?’

  De Plesse shrugged. ‘How would I?’

  ‘Rocket casings. For some weeks now, apparently. There was some re-tooling and a break in production a few months ago, now it’s going full-blast. Craillot has had suspicions about it for some time, I gather, but having no channels to SOE at all now – also the problems I’ve described, difficulty if not impossibility of bombing, even if he could get word through, and the local people’s disinclination to indulge in sabotage… He’s not exceptionally bright, Dufay admitted – Craillot, that is. It wasn’t said disparagingly, his words as I recall them were that he’s a good guy but no genius… So there it is, Rosalie. I’d guess – Dufay guesses – that what they’re making might be casings for Hitler’s secret weapon number two, about which we’ve heard so much. These are very large objects – twelve metres long and two in diameter, approximately. Dufay suggests they might be using factories in France because Germany’s being bombed to pieces – and a plant such as this, four years untouched, they might even consider as immune from bombing – eh?’

  ‘Immunity likely to be lifted very shortly.’ Rosie leaking smoke, staring at him through it. ‘Just have to get the people out of the way somehow. Last-minute warnings. But mind you, if your friend’s guess is right—’

  ‘Bombers’d be over that village the minute we were sure of it. No doubt of that. But here’s another line of thought, Rosalie. Remember I suggested – more or less – staking out the Marchéval place against the chance he’d show up there?’

  ‘When the merde hits the fan.’

  ‘Exactly. Meaning then, when our troops get into Paris – or sooner, when the Boches take to their heels. But they might take him along, you know? Or dispose of him some other way. Or, he might take off on his own before that. So I thought, what if it could be arranged for the factory to be bombed or sabotaged? Eh? Which now it may have to be?’

  ‘If the rocket report stands up.’

  ‘Exactly—’

  ‘Only Craillot’s story via Dufay, though
– plus guesswork. It’s not a lot. If it does stand up, of course – well, crikey—’

  ‘Dynamite. And to have turned it up like this – for sure it’s last-minute stuff, but any interruption of that programme—’

  She’d nodded: it went without saying. ‘As regards “Hector”, though – whether in fact a bombing attack would bring him rushing down from Paris—’

  ‘I agree – an attack on the works, that is. This is another angle, now. After my first talk with Dufay I couldn’t see such an attack being laid on – for the reasons we’ve discussed – unimportant target, risk to local families’ lives. So I thought then – before anything came up about rockets – why not target Henri Marchéval’s own residence? Henri is André’s father, I should have said. Mightn’t that bring your boy running?’

  ‘Maybe it would. If he was able to get there. And heard about it in the first place. One doesn’t know how free or otherwise he may be. Might help if there was sabotage – the Gestapo might take him down there with them.’

  All speculation… Remembering how they’d brought him to Morlaix in the hope he’d identify her; and how in Rue des Saussaies he’d been allowed freedom of movement – apparently – but still jumped to obey when the man with the whip had yelled ‘Get out!’… She’d finished her cigarette; dropping its remains in the saucer, looking at Michel again across the curve of the table’s end.

  ‘This house – not right in the village?’

  ‘Little way out, in walled grounds. I’ll show you on Dufay’s sketch. Quite a big old place, apparently – Manoir St Valéry. Marchéval père has been allowed to retain one wing of it, the rest’s occupied by Boches.’

  ‘Oh…’

  ‘Attractive target, huh?’

  ‘Could be… But so are rocket casings. Any idea how they’re shifted – by rail, for instance, or—’