Stranger at the Gates (8 page)

He treated her with friendliness and courtesy, but he let her know, by a touch against her, a smile when she came into the room, by the scent which was the most expensive and exotic he could buy, that he found her irresistibly attractive, and that the moment she held out her hand, he would be there.

He went to the window, after switching off the lights and opened it wide. He knew the value of fresh air for healthy sleep; for a moment he looked out over the countryside, illumined by the same bright moon Louise had seen two hours before.

There was a red glow to the left, a finger of fiery orange in the middle of it. He leaned out, and on the wind he smelt smoke. There was a fire in St. Blaize. He watched for a few moments and then withdrew. He had no curiosity about the village or its people. They were co-operative and peaceful. If they needed help beyond the capacity of the primitive local fire engine, they would call upon the German military. St. Blaize was a good place for a German. No assassins lurked in the streets or sprang upon them in the lanes. There was no trouble. Which was exactly why Brühl had picked the district to set up his headquarters. Minutes after he was in bed, Minden was deeply asleep.

‘Mama! Mama, wake up!' Louise felt her son's arms round her neck, and his mouth pressing excitedly against her cheek.

She hadn't heard the maid come in and draw the curtains back; the room was filled with a pale sunlight. ‘Darling, what is it—why haven't you gone to school?' She sat up, and the little boy climbed onto the bed.

‘I'm going,' he said. ‘Fritz is downstairs.' There was another of the Major's gestures. His batman drove the children to the village school each morning before taking him to the Château Diane.

‘There's been a fire,' her son announced. ‘A big fire in the village!'

‘In the village? Where—Marie-Anne, is this right?'

‘Yes, Madame.' The maid came towards her. ‘Poor old Madame Pallier's house. They couldn't put it out; everyone was asleep when it happened. She was burned to death, poor old soul.'

‘How terrible.' Louise shuddered. She looked at her son's excited face. ‘Go down now, darling, or you'll be late. Where's Sophie?'

‘Getting her books—you know, Mama, she's always late.'

‘Go on.' She kissed him. ‘Don't keep Fritz waiting.'

‘How awful,' she said to the maid. ‘That poor woman. After losing her husband and son like that too.'

‘They're an unlucky family, Madame.' Marie-Anne paused at the door. She was fond of the Comtesse, and she enjoyed calamity. Without words the two women understood each other. Marie-Anne hated the German Fritz, and she knew that Madame hated the Major. Yet they could not get rid of either of them. She and her husband had served the Comte's father and mother since they were brought up from the village in their teens. They were glad to survive, but they were not proud of the price the Comte had paid for it.

‘Very unlucky,' she repeated. ‘Two sons lost in the First War, poor Gaston was the only one left, and then he gets himself murdered by the Germans and
his
only son goes too. Now the place burns down. I heard she was found by the door; she must have been trying to get out. Old people like that shouldn't live alone. There's always trouble.' She shook her head, filled with enjoyment.

‘Where's Monsieur?'

‘Gone down to the village,' Marie-Anne said. ‘He left as soon as we woke him with the news. He's gone to see the Mayor.'

Louise got up and dressed. They had only one car and a tiny amount of petrol. The coupons were another of the Major's gifts. There was no way of getting to St. Blaize. Jean should have woken her and taken her with him. She'd had the courage to go to the Palliers' Requiem while he stayed at home. She wanted to go down, to show herself. She ran down the stairs to the hall, hearing a car come to the front. At the foot of the stairs she almost bumped into the Major. He was dressed in his field grey uniform, his cap under one arm, drawing on his gloves. He was a tall, well set up man, his dark hair cut close to a fine-shaped head.

‘Good morning, Madame.' He smiled at her.

‘Good morning.' Louise disliked meeting him alone, even in the hall. ‘I'm looking for my husband, I thought I heard his car.'

‘That was Fritz, I'm afraid,' the Major said. ‘Coming back from the school. Is there anything I can do?'

‘No,' Louise said. ‘Thank you. There's been a fire in St. Blaize and an old widow died. I wanted to go down myself.'

The Major looked at his watch and then at her.

‘I'm in good time this morning,' he said. ‘I'd be delighted to drive you.'

‘Thank you,' Louise said again. ‘But it wouldn't be possible.'

‘Why not?' He had placed himself in front of her. ‘You're looking very charming this morning. Why can't I drive you to the village?'

He was making the first move in the silent game, the first acknowledgement that there was a game in progress. She decided to play it in the open too.

‘I can't go with you, because the woman who died lost both husband and her son two years ago. They were shot by your military. I'm sure you realise how inappropriate it would be for me to go to the village with you.'

‘If you think so. But please remember they must have done something criminal. We don't shoot people for nothing.'

‘A British agent was dropped here. The Palliers sheltered him and got caught. That was their crime. And from what Jean tells me it could happen again.'

‘It wasn't necessary for him to tell you,' the Major said. ‘I just asked for his co-operation, that was all.'

‘And I am sure you got it,' Louise said. ‘But don't expect it from me.'

‘I'm sure you're very brave,' the Major said gently. ‘But please, dear Madame de Bernard, don't be foolish. Leave this unpleasant kind of thing to men. Personally I don't think anyone was dropped round here. It was just a reconnaissance, that's all. If I can't be of service, then I shall go. Until this evening.'

He bowed and gave her a smile for which she could have slapped his face. Then he went out into the morning sunshine.

There was a German patrol on the road junction between St. Blaize and Houdan. He watched it through his field-glasses, lying on his stomach in some bushes on a rise in the fields about three hundred yards away. The bicycle lay in an irrigation ditch, covered with leaves. He had spent the night hidden there, wrapped in a thin waterproof sheet, eating some of his K rations, watching the fire he had lit in the Palliers' kitchen grow from a flicker in the darkness to a full-scale beacon. A funeral pyre, he thought, for a heroic mother of heroic France. He bit into the bar of chocolate. Christ, he hadn't any right to judge. Nobody had occupied
his
home town. It wasn't till you heard the tanks rumble past the door that you could say how you'd behave in the circumstances. It was a pity about the old lady, but he refused to think about it. The fire must be attracting a lot of attention. It was only when he scouted the roads in the morning and saw the improvised check point that he knew they had heard the plane hovering overhead and guessed its mission.

He swore. His papers described him as Roger Bertrand Savage, Swiss national, domiciled in Berne, born in Ohio, USA, by profession a company lawyer in the firm of Felon, Brassier et Roule, an internationally famous company with offices in Geneva, Berne, and a subsidiary in Philadelphia.

It was an excellent cover, worked out from the New York end and confirmed by their contacts in Switzerland. Felon and Brassier had substantial US interests and were secret supporters of the Allies. Anyone checking with them would get the same information. Roger Savage was a senior member of their staff, an American who had graduated at the University of Lausanne and taken Swiss nationality before the war. He was at present visiting a client in France. It would hold up against all but the most detailed investigation, and he felt confident in the role. He spoke excellent French and German; he had a marvellous ear, not only for languages but for nuances of accent.

He watched the soldiers moving lazily round their road block. He had a survey map of the district and he got it out and studied it carefully. He knew all the main routes into the village. The one he could see through his glasses led in from the north. If that one was blocked then for a certainty so were all the others. The bastards had put a net round the area. They had cut off the roads as an escape route, and that meant they were getting ready for a patrol sweep through the fields and around the smaller wooded hills. It was eight o'clock in the morning. At any moment the first group would be setting out. He turned back to the map. The railway line was a very small branch line of the Paris to Chartres route which was heavily marked. St. Blaize was a community big enough to merit a small sub-station. Few trains would be running. The line was marked to the west, about three-quarters of a mile away. It was hidden by a belt of silver birch trees. He crawled backwards to the irrigation ditch, dragged the bicycle upright and keeping in the shelter of the ditch, began wheeling it away towards the birches. He came out of the shelter of the dip, focused on the patrol once more, and saw no sign of anyone sweeping the area with glasses. He jumped on the cycle and pedalled quickly over the edge of the field towards the trees. When he reached them, he dismounted, walked out to the other side and reconnoitred again. There was no sign of German military presence. There was no road, only the undulating fields and the thin ribbon of railway track. He pushed on, using the cycle when the terrain was possible, but moving as fast as he could. He slid down the slight embankment to the track, dragging the bicycle with him. He mounted, carrying the suitcase tied on his back; inside were a change of clothes, the ground sheet folded very small, the handsome leather briefcase embossed with his initials and a radio transmitter set. He carried his gun stuck in the waistband of his trousers. The L pill, that release from torture above bearing, was concealed in his left cuff link. He was a brave man, but he wouldn't hesitate to take it.

He cycled along the edge of the track for a mile and three-quarters. It wound and twisted in the way of branch lines. Sometimes he glanced back, listening for the rumble of a train, looking for a pencil of smoke. Nothing came. The morning grew warm, and he hummed to himself, his nerves calm. Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof. The old tag came into his thoughts and he changed it. Sufficient unto the hour; the minute. The sun shone and the way was downhill. And his mission had begun. By nine-thirty he had reached the outskirts of the station at St. Blaize. He pulled the cycle up the incline and wheeled it slowly towards the first group of sheds and outbuildings. Further on the slope became a platform, with the ticket office and waiting room. He tried the first shed, but the door was locked. He could see nobody about. The second building was a store room of some kind. The door was open and it was empty inside. He slipped in with the bicycle and a moment later came out without it, closing the door. It could be weeks before anyone looked in there.

He walked slowly up the platform and stopped at the timetable board. A printed sheet with pencilled alterations showed that there was a train due in thirty minutes. He recognised his own good luck. It was the only train that day. He went into the waiting room, and then stopped. Two young women were sitting inside, one of them was knitting. They both stared at him. He smiled.

‘Pardon,' he said. ‘I'm looking for the toilets.'

‘Through there,' one of the girls said. Her companion smiled back; she showed an interest he didn't find flattering. He went through to one of two doors, marked with a vague male silhouette. Inside the smell was urinous and stale. He unpacked his bag, and quickly stripped out of his clothes. In underpants and singlet his body was muscled and vigorous, the body of a soldier at the peak of training. He changed into a plain white shirt, Swiss made, like the dark suit and the tie, the calf shoes, combed his hair down and put on a soft black Homburg hat. He looked at himself in the spotted mirror. Herr Savage from Berne. He repacked his sports clothes in the suitcase, slipped the loaded gun into his trouser band, and looked at his watch. The train wasn't due for ten minutes. There was nothing to do but go out and face the two women. He came into the waiting room; they were still there and they both looked up at him, registering surprise. He lifted his hat to them and sat down, folding his hands on his lap and closed his eyes. He could feel them looking at him and he heard them whisper. He shifted a little till his right hand was over the hard outline of the gun. He lifted one eyelid a fraction to see if either of them had moved; they were still sitting, murmuring together. He heard them giggle and immediately he relaxed. Everything was going his way. The open shed, the train timetable, the solution of fire for disposing of the old woman. He suddenly saw her face, the hatred and cunning in her eyes, the downward pull of her mouth as she denounced her husband and son … He had felt no pity at the time and he felt no remorse now. He had a job to do. He had a primary objective to reach and it was coming closer. There was a clanging of a signal bell and then the rattling roar of the train. The women jumped up, hurrying as women do when they are travelling. He yawned, straightened his hat and got up slowly. They were on the platform when he reached the door. A moment later they had disappeared inside the train. Four passengers alighted. Savage walked through the waiting room door and joined them at the barrier.

He paid for his ticket, explaining that he had come through from Paris without time to buy one. Nobody even glanced up at him. Outside the station he looked round. A decrepit Peugeot with a gazogene waited by the side of the road. He saw two of the passengers hesitating. He took a chance and rushed past them to the motorcar. The driver was inside reading a copy of
La Dépêche des Yvelines
.