Death Has Deep Roots (7 page)

“I’m off now to the Société de Lorraine to try my charms on the French bureaucrats.”

“H’m,” said Mrs. Rumbold thoughtfully.

She read the letter again, turned it over to make sure there was no postscript, and then handed it down to Phylida Rumbold, who was lying on her stomach on the carpet. Phylida tore it in four pieces and started to eat the largest piece.

Meanwhile Nap had discovered the Bureau de Lorraine. The French, who have a genius for melancholia in their conduct of public affairs, had selected the most repulsive of the large houses which make up the south side of Charles Street, had decorated the front with a tricolor, and had already succeeded in imparting to the interior that particular odor of airlessness, frustration and a distant hint of the concierge’s cooking arrangements which characterize the French administrative building.

Nap found a room marked reception and looked in.

Seated behind a desk, sole occupant of the room, was a girl. She looked up, saw Nap and smiled. It did not need the new copy of
Le Figaro
in her hand or the elaborately simple, beautifully conceived clothes. The face itself was sufficient to place her within ten square miles of the world’s surface. Only one capital city could produce that deepest of dark brown hair, with highlights of black, that white neck solidly angled to the shoulders, yet too well-proportioned to seem thick: Siamese cat’s eyes of very light blue, which were so rarely found with such black hair.

Nap realised that he was staring, but that the girl seemed unembarrassed by this circumstance.

Possibly she was used to people staring at her.

“Can I be of assistance?”

“Well, yes,” said Nap. “I expect you can.”

“What is it you want?”

“I want to see Monsieur le Directeur.”

“If you would very kindly indicate your business.” The girl drew a printed form from a rack and smiled at him. It was the sort of smile that sent the temperature of the room up ten degrees and turned all the lights on.

All right, thought Nap. If this is a bureaucrat,
vive le bureaucratisme.

“I am inquiring,” he said, “about three persons, of all of whom I had hoped your organisation might have something to tell me. First, Mademoiselle Victoria Lamartine—” Nap gave such details as he had and the girl made a number of businesslike little notes on her pad. “Then of a Monsieur Sainte – Monsieur Honorifique Sainte – of the same department. He is now the proprietor of an hotel in Pearlyman Street. I believe that you have had dealings with him.”

“
Bien, monsieur.
And the third?”

“The third,” said Nap slowly, “is an Englishman. A Lieutenant Wells, of the British Army. He was parachuted into the district of Maine-et-Loire in 1943 and afterward disappeared. Any news which you could let us have would be very much appreciated. It is possible, however, that he is dead – killed by the Gestapo.”

“Very well,” said the girl. “Will you follow me?”

She led the way out into the passage and pointed to a small room opposite. Nap went in. It looked like a waiting room. Half an hour later he had no doubts about it. It was certainly a waiting room. Almost an hour had gone by before the door opened and a small man in black came in and asked Nap to be good enough to follow.

The
directeur’s
office was at the other end of the passage. It was a large and pleasant room and it overlooked the garden. Despite the warmth of the afternoon its windows were tightly shut, and the only air in the room appeared to come from a door in the opposite corner which was a few inches open.

“Please be seated,” said the
directeur.
“I must apologise that you were kept waiting. Inquiries such as yours cannot be answered on the moment.”

“Of course not,” said Nap. “It’s very good of you to see me at all.”

“To business,” said the
directeur
agreeably.

Nap said, “It is of two of your compatriots that I am inquiring – two persons I believe your organisation has helped in the past, Mademoiselle Lamartine and Monsieur Sainte—”

The
directeur
pressed the tips of the fingers of his right hand against the tips of the fingers of his left hand in an exceedingly bureaucratical way.

“First,” he said, “one should be excused for asking your credentials.”

Nap was ready for this one.

“I suggest,” he said, “that you ring up the Governor of Holloway Prison – he might allow you, in the circumstances, to speak to Miss Lamartine, and in any case he knows my name. Or you might ring up my office and ask for my father. He will confirm that we act for the lady.”

“I accept your credentials,” said the
directeur
calmly. Despite his pompous manner he did not look like a fool. Indeed, it seemed unlikely that the head of such an organisation could be a fool.

“A minute with my files,” he said, and turned to the shelf beside him.

“Mademoiselle Victoria Lamartine,” he said, “formerly of Paris – you do not want her former Paris address, I take it. The house has, anyway, been destroyed. Evacuated in 1939 to Langeais near Angers, department of Maine-et-Loire. Engaged in Resistance work. Arrested the fifteenth of September, 1943. In the hands of the enemy until August, 1944 during which time she had a son born in prison. The son died in 1947. Mademoiselle Lamartine applied for permission to work in England. In view of her known history the references and deposit were waived and work was secured for her in London at the hotel in Pearlyman Street near Euston Station.”

“Thank you,” said Nap. “Much of that was known to us but the confirmation, you understand, may be useful.”

“Honorifique Sainte, hotelier, 15 Rue du Pont Saumur, department Indre-et-Loire. Of good conduct during the war, though not, so far as is known, actively engaged in Resistance work. Application to open a hotel in London made in May, 1946. Deposit of 500,000 francs. References, Pierre and André Marquis, farmers of Avrillé-les-Ponceaux, and M. Gimelet, lawyer, of 20 Rue de Gazomètre, Angers. Aged fifty-five.”

“Thank you,” said Nap. He made a note of the names and dates. “Finally – I hardly think it likely – but—”

“Monsieur Le Lieutenant Wells,” said the
directeur,
looking down at the form on the desk. “We should hardly be able to help you. We concern ourselves, you understand, with French citizens who have come over to England. We have no right, even, to ask them questions, but we are able to assist them, and so they keep us informed of their movements. Inquiries in France, however, are another matter. If we wish to make inquiries in France we have to obtain the assistance of the proper authorities.”

“The Sûreté,” suggested Nap.

“If the matter is criminal, certainly. Or of the Department of the Interior.”

“I see,” said Nap. “Well, thank you at all events for what you have given me.”

On his way out he noticed that the door of the reception room was open. He looked in, but the room was empty.

After Nap had left the room the
directeur
sat for a few moments in silence. Then he walked over to the door in the corner and threw it open. In a small anteroom the black-haired girl was sitting, a shorthand notebook on her knee. She did not get up when the
directeur
came in and it was noticeable that they spoke as equals.

“It would still appear to me,” said the
directeur –
he seemed to be taking up an argument where it had been left off, “to be a perfectly normal inquiry. I have read of the trial, of course. And these are the inquiries which Mademoiselle Lamartine’s friends might be expected to make. My only criticism is that they should have been made earlier.”

“I agree,” said the girl. “But there are facts which you do not know.” She shut her notebook. “This morning, for instance, that young man, Mr. Rimbault, met his friend, Major McCann. They had a very animated conversation. The subject matter of this conversation is only conjectural, but Major McCann was last night involved in an altercation – an exceedingly violent altercation – with two of the minor members of the English end of an organisation in which we happen to be interested.”

The
directeur
rasped the tip of his finger against the shaven side of his chin but said nothing.

“It seems fairly certain,” went on the girl, “that when Mr. Rimbault reaches France he will run into trouble. The people whom I have mentioned are remarkable for their good intelligence organisation. Nor do they conduct their affairs with gloved hands.”

“You think then,” said the
directeur,
“that when he leaves England, you should – it is, of course, entirely your decision.”

“I think so,” said the girl. “Yes, I most certainly think so.”

Nap wedged his deck chair into a convenient space between the end of a wooden seat and a steel bulkhead, buttoned up his overcoat collar and settled down to do some thinking.

A night breeze was scuffling the water as the steamer cleared Newhaven harbour, and, winking in and out against the blackness of the sea, Nap saw the whitecaps as the wind bit off the top of the little waves. There didn’t seem to be enough power behind it to move the sea, for which Nap was duly thankful for he was not the world’s best sailor.

He had plenty to think about.

First of all he was trying to work out a plan of campaign which might have a chance of unearthing in five or six days something which had lain hidden for as many years.

The only line of approach which he could see was to visit the two farms – the Père Chaise farm where Vicky had worked and Wells had hidden and on which the Gestapo had descended with such disastrous results in September, 1943, and the farm of the brothers Marquis which, he had ascertained, lay about five miles to the north of it. Was it a coincidence, he wondered, that the brothers Marquis, who had stood surety for Sainte, should have a farm such a short distance away. Probably only a coincidence. The second possible line would be to question the brothers Marquis and Monsieur Gimelet of Angers, and try to discover something to the discredit of Monsieur Sainte. This would not, perhaps, help to unravel the mystery, but it might provide more useful ammunition for Macrea.

Langeais, Avrillé-les-Ponceaux, Saumur, Angers. They all lay within quite a small circle. Somewhere within that circumference was a key to their riddle, if he had the wit to find it.

He looked out across the blackness of the sea and the gloss and shine of the waves suddenly put him in mind of a head of hair belonging to a girl he had seen that morning.

Upon which he raised his eyes, and saw her, leaning against the rail.

First, in silhouette, against the pale night sky, but he knew at once, from the tilt of the chin and the set of the neck. Then the companionway door, swinging open and shut as the ship rolled, loosed a shaft of light, only for a second, but it was enough.

Nap got up and moved over to the rail as quickly as he could for the deck chairs and the clutter of baggage. When he got there the girl had gone.

“She can’t get away unless she swims for it,” he said.

It wasn’t a big boat and in ten minutes he had been through the few public rooms. Then he went out and made a slow circuit of the two decks. The blue night lamps were lit and he did the job thoroughly, staring at recumbent forms and disturbing an indignant couple in a dark corner behind the deck-chair house.

He went back again into the lighted interior and had a word with the purser.

Yes, said the purser, there were private cabins – only six of them and all were taken. If Nap would tell him the name of the person he was looking for, he would examine the list.

Nap said it didn’t matter.

He would have to wait until they docked at Dieppe. If he stationed himself by the gangplank he could hardly miss her. Meanwhile, he thought he would kill time by having a drink. He made his way through the saloon into the bar.

The bar was empty except for a bearded Frenchman in one corner who was sacrificing his Channel crossing in libations of cognac, and the French girl, who was perched on one of the high stools.

As he came in she looked up with a smile of plainest welcome and it occurred to Nap that he had no idea at all what he wanted to say to her.

He was saved the trouble. The girl indicated the stool beside her and Nap sat down.

She inspected him slowly but not rudely, and then said, “So young.”

“You leave my youth alone,” said Nap, who was apt to be sensitive about his appearance. “I would remind you that I am a married man.”

“And a lieutenant-colonel,” said the girl.

“War Substantive,” said Nap. “We keep a Pekingese, too, and have a female child called Phylida.”

“Charming,” said the girl. “So
gosse.
One would scarcely credit that you were pubic.”

“Oh, but I am, I assure you,” said Nap. “Hairs on the chest and everything. Will you join me in a drink? What’s that you’ve got there?”

“Pernod. Thank you.”

Nap looked with increased respect at the girl. He knew the cloudy devil that lived in the harmless, lemonade-coloured liquid. He considered that his safest course would be to stick to business.

“You appear to know a good deal more about me,” he said, “than I do about you. I regret that I do not even know your name.”

“That is easily remedied,” said the girl. She opened her bag, took out a tiny snake – skin case, and picked out an ivory-coloured card. Nap took it up and read: “Josephine Delboise.” The card was edged in black.

“My husband,” explained Madame Delboise.

“Killed in the war?”

“In the war, but not in action. He was tortured to death by the Germans.” She said this in the extremely matter-of-fact voice which the French reserve for announcements of this sort.

“I am sorry,” said Nap.

“Not so sorry as the Germans – of those concerned all were killed by us. Some sooner, some later.”

“I see,” said Nap. He felt himself being sidetracked again. He ordered himself another gin and, seeing that she had finished hers, another Pernod for Madame Delboise, and dragged the conversation ruthlessly back.