Staying Alive Read online

  ‘As a smart lawyer he’d be concerned to rumble Marc’s real motive, wouldn’t he? Which is not entirely clear to me, I may say.’

  In my imagination I saw Jake thoughtfully stubbing out a cigarette, probably not quite understanding it himself. Marc so crazy about the woman that his thinking might not be entirely rational? A concept that had occurred to Rosie earlier, one remembered. And at an earlier stage he had given Jake the impression of being – what did they call it then – smitten? Although what he might have hoped to get out of the woman’s husband…

  * * *

  Shrugging it off, anyway, with a repetition of ‘If I’m in time, I’ll try to talk him out of it.’ And then, ‘You must be whacked, Rosie.’

  ‘The old pins are feeling it a bit.’

  Chef de Réseau’s eyes on them: ‘Some “old pins”, if I may say so.’

  ‘But speaking of being whacked – my next listening-out night being tomorrow, Wednesday – if you’re still against my doing it from here—’

  A nod. ‘So happens I’ve hit on another location you could get to and from easily enough by bike. Nothing like as far as last night’s, but a reasonable distance – northeast from here, high, fair-sized patch of forest – I’d say as good as anywhere we’d find, in these parts.’

  ‘Show me?’

  * * *

  How these sessions tended to go: Rosie recalling or semi-recalling events and conversations, and me visualising and expanding on them. Fictionalising, you might call it, but essentially putting bare facts or fragments of fact into a shape that more or less made sense – with snatches of dialogue insinuating themselves more or less of their own accord.

  Prompting her now with ‘So you’d have had to cycle to this new place on the Wednesday, and again – somewhere – on the Friday and Saturday – 27th and 28th, as per London’s message after you’d reported on the parachutage?’

  ‘In theory yes, but I was thinking I might dig my heels in when it came to the Saturday. To come pedalling back into town Sunday morning, and get down to the coast with Jake that same day – and that night on the plage or thereabouts probably no sleep at all…’ Pausing, gazing past my shoulder into the grey, wet street: ‘Rain’s stopped, might as well get along, d’you think? Actually I do rather need—’

  ‘Snap.’

  ‘Well. Great minds… In fact Jake was right to play it as safe as it could be played. Especially remembering how determined I’d been not to take risks I didn’t have to – “do a Wiggy”, all that stuff – and the degree of risk we’d already taken, using that tower.’ On her feet now, adding ‘And as to the listening-out excursions, if he was taking me down there in his office car, I could sleep then, couldn’t I, several hours of kip.’ That sudden smile of hers: when she’d been twenty-four, it must have been quite devastating. ‘Meet in the foyer in ten minutes, shall we?’

  * * *

  Waiting for her in the Ambassade’s foyer, thinking it over and making a few more notes – the ten minutes becoming fifteen or twenty – I realised the Wednesday or Thursday might have been too late for Jake to have advised Marc against keeping his appointment with Vérisoin; I could see that at about the time Jake and Rosie were discussing it, on that Tuesday, he’d more likely have been parking his van in the yard of the ice factory and walking through into Perpignan’s business centre to Rue Mirabeau where the lawyer had his office. Head office – which Marc would no doubt have seen often enough from the outside, Charles-Henri Vérisoin, Avocat – etc. – in gilt lettering on the curtained glass, and trying to visualise the man of that name as Gabi had once described him – ‘Brain like a razor, looks more of a donkey. No – be fair to him, say a horse. He’s not a small man. Actually he’s quite sweet – and very kind, but—’

  A sigh: with her eyes lingering on Marc’s lean, rather swarthy face. So strong, Denise had often said: ‘A brother to rely on through thick and thin – eh, Marc?’ While Gabi had called it an assassin’s face — and meant that as a compliment!

  Should have made a move then – when she, he thought, had been in a mood not to resist. In retrospect, one saw it: at the time, may have missed an opportunity. Equally though, should not have risked involving her with Denise. Not that there was any certainty or evidence it was that that had brought in the Abwehr here or La Geste up there: the notion had hit him during the interview in Narbonne, returned and tormented him since Gabi’s disappearance.

  His fault they’d got her…

  Number 114. Charles-Henri Vérisoin. Heavy oak door with a brass bell-push on it. Slight constriction in the gut as he put his thumb on it and a moment later heard a key turn in the lock. Surprised – slightly – that it should have been locked in the first place.

  ‘Bonjour, monsieur…’

  A clerk – young, dark-haired, pale, nervy-looking.

  ‘My name’s Voreux. I have an appointment with Monsieur Vérisoin. I’m a few minutes early, but—’

  ‘Come in.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Removing his broad-brimmed rain-hat as he stepped inside and the clerk pushed the door shut, lock snapping down. There was a stout, older man at one desk, two others unoccupied, at that end of the room. All quiet, not at all the busy office he’d imagined.

  Strain in the older one’s face, and something peculiar in this other’s.

  ‘A moment, please.’

  Clerk moving towards one of two inner doors. Hadn’t invited him to sit down, although there were several chairs at a round table with some newspapers and a large glass ashtray on it; so presumably he wasn’t to be kept waiting. The clerk had gone through, and Marc heard, ‘Monsieur…’

  ‘Here already?’

  Not quite real French. Not far off it, but – ‘Show him in.’

  The same slight harshness, foreignness. And a growl in another voice – both recognisable suddenly, and this second one – Abwehr sergeant, name of Behm – in civvies this time – appearing now behind the clerk – who’d given Marc a helpless, ‘not our fault’ look…

  Jerk of the sergeant’s head: ‘Viens.’

  * * *

  No Charles-Henri Vérisoin: only Abwehr lieutenant Hohler: in a light-grey suit, green silk tie. He’d been in civvies last time, of course: but he’d had a haircut, looked less like a young university lecturer, more like a young soldier slightly dandified. Marc pretty well stunned, fighting for self-control in this situation he was simply going to have to cope with – surprise being natural enough therefore OK, shock or panic definitely not to be evinced. The leutnant was seated at a large, roll-top desk that had to be Vérisoin’s, and he’d nodded towards a narrow, walnut chair facing it from a distance of two or three metres, obviously placed there for Marc’s use. And a litter of stuff – drawers that had been pulled out of the desk, their contents and those of cupboards strewn around, a search in progress which he’d interrupted. The sergeant had shut the door and was standing –presumably – somewhere behind him. Back against the door, maybe, as he had last time.

  In case their prisoner made a bolt for it?

  Would have, given half a chance you’d get away.

  ‘Sit, Voreux.’

  ‘All right.’

  On the desk, a silver-framed portrait of Gabrielle. Her film-star looks, mass of dark hair, décolletage, eyes dreamy with her own awareness of the general effect.

  ‘Tell me what’s your business with Charles-Henri Vérisoin.’

  ‘Well – I’d made an appointment—’

  ‘We know that, it’s in the diary, I’m asking you what for.’

  ‘Well—’

  ‘Come on – what for?’

  ‘To discuss the – the apparent disappearance of his wife.’

  ‘Some reason to think he’d want to discuss it with you?’

  ‘No. I was surprised when he agreed to see me, but—’

  ‘This would have been your first meeting with him, would it?’

  ‘Yes – as it happens–’

  ‘Never met him at his house, either?’
/>
  ‘Never anywhere. But I know his wife –’ movement of the head towards her portrait – ‘who’s vanished, and—’

  ‘What has been the nature of your relationship with Madame Vérisoin?’

  ‘Well, she’s been a customer – for lobsters primarily—’

  Hohler looked boyish when he laughed. The sergeant had chuckled too, somewhere behind there. Marc lifted his hands: ‘I’ve no idea why I should be questioned like this, what I’m supposed to have done or how what I said then amuses you.’

  ‘Lobsters primarily, eh?’

  Shrugging slightly. ‘See, people of their kind, who have a taste for such things and can afford them – lobsters, crabs, oysters, scallops, langoustine and other special items – turbot for instance – which in present circumstances tend not to come their way because the regular merchants rail such luxuries away to Paris—’

  ‘Quite a looker, isn’t she?’

  Leaning back in his chair, feasting blue eyes on Gabi. ‘The other photo he had there is of himself shaking hands with General Pétain. I’ve turned that one on its face, but she – no one in his right mind would turn her down – uh?’

  Marc looking from her portrait back to Hohler. There’d been a snort of amusement from the sergeant. He said evenly, ‘She’s an extremely nice woman, as well as beautiful.’

  ‘I’ll take your word for that. As to the turbot – last time we met you tried to bore us silly on the subject of saccharin. Let’s not do the same with fish now. You came to see Vérisoin because until very recently you’ve had his lovely wife whispering sweet somethings in your ear and now suddenly you haven’t, you’re consequently sort of headless, purposeless? And assuming she’d have had it all from him – wouldn’t that explain your anxiety to see him?’

  ‘I find you difficult to understand, lieutenant. Vérisoin as far as I know had little interest in anything except the conduct of his legal businesses. To him I’d have been nothing more than the door-to-door salesman from whom she – or more often her cook – bought certain items – if indeed she’d have bothered to tell him even that much!’

  ‘So back to my question, why come to him now?’

  ‘Because he might know where she is. If for instance she’d just gone away for a few days—’

  ‘Funny sort of husband who’d pander to an itinerant lobster salesman’s curiosity. In fact you didn’t answer my question as to the precise nature of your relationship with her. Customer for lobsters – that might have served as justification for your frequent visits – just as making an appointment in office hours, ostensibly perhaps to obtain legal advice on some aspect of your wretched business, but actually as cover for seeking fresh instructions directly from the boss?’

  ‘The boss…’

  ‘Or “le patron”, as he’s known in certain quarters.’

  A frown: puzzlement, more than any serious interest. ‘What quarters would those be?’

  ‘She’s his wife, after all. Running you on his behalf – their affair, although you may have thought of it as hers—’

  ‘Running me?’

  ‘You may have enjoyed a more personal relationship with her, of course – for which I’d hardly blame you—’

  ‘If I understand correctly what you’re implying—’

  ‘It doesn’t matter anyway. What does – whether or not this is news to you, Voreux – Charles-Henri Vérisoin has for some period of time been the main organiser of financial support for so-called Resistance groups throughout Haut-Garonne, l’Aude and Pyrénées Orientales.’

  ‘I don’t believe it…’

  ‘It’s not what you believe or don’t, Voreux, that’s of importance to us.’

  ‘But he’s Chef des Compagnons de France!’

  ‘A man can pin on a pair of wings, doesn’t make him cherubim or seraphim – isn’t that what they say?’

  ‘But she—’

  He’d checked himself.

  He had come to suspect, from things she’d let drop from time to time, that the Vérisoins had not been as far apart in their political views as she’d initially given him to understand. It might be nearer the truth, he’d begun to think, to say that Charles-Henri had simply not wanted to be personally involved or have his status as Chef des Compagnons compromised. This feeling had in fact considerably reduced the perceived risk in contacting him.

  ‘Yes? But she what?’

  ‘I’m simply – bemused…’

  ‘What did you know of her activities?’

  Determined shake of the head. ‘I sold fish to her – or to the cook on her authority. They were regular customers who knew what was what and paid on the nail. Now in her absence the cook maintains she has no such authority – isn’t it natural enough I’d turn to her husband?’ He did look as well as sound astonished. ‘You’ve amazed me, lieutenant—’

  ‘We’re talking about her activities now. For instance, not to have to go too far back, wasn’t there a Jewish couple – at the tail end of your sister’s escape-line operation – she’d sent them on their way – not by any means the first, I’m sure, she may well have sent dozens—’

  ‘No – I swear—’

  ‘You were to take care of this pair – as you’ve done often enough, but this was only a few weeks ago. Madame Vérisoin intervened personally at what might otherwise have been an awkward moment for you. We know of this incidentally from – a third party, let’s call him. But thanks to her – a nod at Gabi’s portrait – ‘you got them away.’ Hohler looked down his nose at him. ‘You might well look shocked, she’s holding very little back. I think what broke the dam was her realising we knew about her husband.’ A glance in the direction of the sergeant. ‘Were better informed than he is, Behm!’

  ‘Seems so…’

  ‘And with both of them now off the map, Voreux, how will you get your instructions from now on?’

  ‘Instructions?’

  ‘Of course – you’re nothing but a poissonnier – I’d forgotten. Despite which, you told us of an imminent parachutage, location and date unknown to you, but – well, there was one, somewhere or other, and it was the first for months. So even on those slender grounds, giving you the benefit of the doubt—’

  ‘I’d only heard a rumour.’

  ‘Where from? Who from?’

  ‘I don’t remember. It was so vague – even then—’

  ‘From Madame, perhaps?’

  Gazing at the portrait again: then back to Marc: ‘What can you tell me now about Operation Hardball?’

  ‘I still don’t know there’s any such thing. The only mention of it – I told you – the American woman in Lyon – which was some time ago—’

  ‘The one source we can bank on – since this is one of the subjects on which Madame is proving obdurate – although that may change soon enough – the one certain source is your new pianist. Any lead on him or her?’

  ‘You said my pianist, but if there’s any such person—’

  ‘There is, and he’s at work all right. I’d have expected him to have made contact with you by now. With the Vérisoins both out of circulation – of which he may not yet be aware – certainly not in Charles-Henri’s case. Obviously he’s in touch with London – has been several times, I’m told – but here on the ground you’re all he or she’s got – isn’t that the case?’

  ‘I’ve no idea at all. I’m completely at a loss—’

  ‘How would you expect him or her to contact you, when he or she does?’

  ‘The question’s unanswerable. As far as I know there’s no such person – and even if there was—’

  ‘There is a pianist at work and he or she must know about Hardball, must also know how to contact you, will do so once he/she learns that both the Vérisoins are behind bars.’

  ‘If I might say this –’ shifting on his chair: and sweating now… ‘I’d say if Hardball still exists. Very likely did – must have – but with your arrival it might well have been called off?’

  ‘So we need your pianist
. Who beyond any doubt at all will contact you. Unless there are others he’d contact – connections you’ve not as yet revealed to us?’

  ‘If by “connections” you mean acquaintances—’

  ‘You were more than an acquaintance of Madame Vérisoin. Close enough to have persuaded her to act as poste restante in efforts to contact your sister?’

  Frowning: as if recalling. No point whatsoever denying. How they’d got on to both him and Gabi. Through Gabi, then her husband too? That much damage from the one living person Denise had thought she could utterly rely on?

  Hohler broke the new silence with ‘Let’s think about your sister, then. Should I remind you of her predicament?’

  ‘No.’ Looking down at his clasped hands. ‘No…’

  ‘You see – well, here’s the worst of it. A form of reminder that’s been suggested is for them to send you one of her fingers – perhaps with a ring on it that you’d recognise.’ Small shake of the head, expression of disdain. ‘I have to say, this is not how the Abwehr operates, but your sister is not physically or technically our prisoner – the suggestion comes from those who have her in their custody, and they as you know are the Geheime Staatspolizei. Who you must also know, Voreux, aren’t nice. For instance, the individual to whom I spoke actually suggested that if a finger didn’t do the trick they’d follow up with the rest of that hand. Then the other – whole. Which would come to you through me. Believe me, they’re more than capable of it. The aim behind it is of course to secure your active cooperation – at this stage, details of Hardball and/or information leading to the arrest of the pianist.’