Escape From Paris (25 page)

The old lady smiled and there was a bright spot of excitement in each cheek.

Then Eleanor frowned. “Jacqueline, you are sure now that this won't be a hardship for you. Are you still in a position to give away such sums?”

The old woman laughed grimly. “I have money, Eleanor. Most of it will go to the Church when I am gone. I have promised Jules and Margot a nice sum when I'm dead. To make sure that doesn't tempt them,” she added dryly, “I've made it clear they will receive an extra 25,000 francs for each year they are in my employ. It's to their advantage for me to live a bit longer.”

Eleanor looked at her with shocked eyes. “If you don't trust them, you could come and live with us.”

“I trust in their self-interest.”

The door to Mme. Leclerc's sitting room was open just a trace, just wide enough for their voices to be heard by Jules, who knelt in the shadows of the hall, his head resting against the creamy white wooden panel.

Fifty thousand francs!

How often would this woman come and ask the mistress for sums of that kind? Even Mme. Leclerc didn't have untold wealth. If these demands went on, month after month the money would dwindle. He strained to hear. How dare she give money such as this to a stranger. He and Margot took good care of Madame, they were earning their money. Another year or two, if they kept her alive that long why, they would be rich when she died.

But not if she gave all her money away beforehand.

The first sum would be handed over . . . He inched the door a little wider.

“I'll have half of the money by next week. I'll meet you on Monday. At the Arc de Triomphe.”

Krause was almost dressed. He buckled his belt then sat on the shabby overstuffed chair to pull on his sleek black leather boots.

The bed springs creaked. She pulled up on one elbow, hugging the covers to her breasts. “Major, are you leaving already?”

“Be quiet.” He was sick of the sound of French. He was sick of French faces and French places. He looked at her with distaste, at her stringy black hair and sallow face and bony body. A French woman was scarcely a woman at all. All bones, no body to her.

Though she hadn't been too bad. Mechanical. Did she think he didn't know it? And ignorant. It had been amusing to turn and twist her and see the fear in her eyes and deep flicker of hatred. But she had performed.

“Major, please,” she whispered.

He stood and reached for his tunic.

“Major!” Her voice was hoarse, pleading. “I haven't told you yet where they are holding my brother. You promised if I . . . you promised to get him released.”

He pulled on the jacket, began to button it, his grayish face remote, uninterested. “Write it down.”

She rolled out of the bed, awkwardly dragging the chenille spread after her. She searched hurriedly for some paper, then, seeing him reach for his heavy green overcoat she tore a piece from a sack, grabbed up a stick of mascara and scrawled, “Jean Massu, The Citadel,” on a piece of brown paper and thrust it toward him.

He took it and tucked it into his coat pocket, paused. “The 10,000 francs.”

Wordlessly, she bent and knelt, an awkward unlovely figure, and wormed her hand between the mattress and the springs and, finally, pulled out a worn greasy envelope.

He took the envelope with a grimace and turned toward the door.

“Major, when will Jean—”

The closing door shut off her words. She stared at the dark wood for a long moment, then tears began to stream down her face and she stumbled blindly toward the bed, thin and young, hugging the worn chenille spread to her chest.

On the street, Erich Krause paused to light a cigarette. He wiped his hands against his great coat. A greasy feel to that damned envelope. He walked moodily down the street, glaring at the passersby. They all looked worn and cold and dirty. What a depressing people. The cold was vicious. Despite his warm lined coat, he was uncomfortable. A damp penetrating cold, not invigorating like the sharp cold of Bavaria. He walked faster but his humor didn't improve. No matter how fast he walked, he would still be in Paris.

It was better when he reached his office. The coal stove in the corner of the room glowed cheerfully. There was the smell of thick strong real coffee and the comfortable sound of German being spoken. He hung his coat on the tree in the corner behind his desk. Reaching into the pocket for his cigarettes, his fingers touched the greasy envelope and the scrap of paper torn from a sack.

As he settled in his chair and lit another cigarette, he looked at the scrap of paper for a long moment. He picked it up, began to crumple it into a ball.

Sgt. Schmidt sat a tray on his desk with a mug of coffee, a pitcher of cream and a bowl of sugar. He poured cream until the coffee turned the color of honey and added two heaping spoonfuls of sugar. Krause stirred it, drank a huge mouthful and smiled. The little ball of paper, half-crushed, lay on the desk. He picked it up, started to throw it into the wastebasket, stopped. After a moment, he shrugged, pulled a sheet of paper toward him and began to write: Orders for Release of Prisoner Jean Massu on the authority of Maj. Erich Krause, GSP, Amt. Iv, D-4, Paris

Humming a little under his breath, he reached for the papers in his in box. He flipped open the first folder, began to read.

Dossier: Helene Moreau, 57, schoolmistress, Les Andelys. He skimmed the single spaced typewritten report: Daughter of Jean and Marie Bizet Moreau, b. June 16, 1883 in Vandreuil . . . educated . . . married to Pierre Moreau December 5, 1903 . . . taught . . . no children . . . intellectual, aloof . . . widowed August 9, 1930 . . . reputation of the highest respectability, no history of criminal activities, no known association with undesirable people.

Krause frowned. Why had he asked for a report on this so respectable Mme. Moreau? He pulled open the deep desk drawer to his right and thumbed through the index tabs to the folder marked Les Andelys. As he read that summary of village gossip and speculation he began to nod. Oh yes, the village school-teacher who had entertained a male visitor late at night.

Krause's eyes narrowed. He looked back at the new report. Reputation of the highest respectability. No history of romantic liaisons. A fifty-seven year old widow. Not too old to be sexually active but could a middle-aged woman in a tiny village escape the notice of observant village eyes until now? Krause leaned back in his comfortable swivel chair and stared at the ornate molding that encircled the ceiling, delicate fine-edged fronds of wheat.

Why, other than sex, would a man slip from a widow's house late at night?

Krause sat up and energetically began to read every detail of the report on Les Andelys. Toward the end, he smiled, a thin satisfied smile. A man had been seen leaving the widow's home early one morning in September. Two men were glimpsed at the end of her street just before dawn two weeks later.

Two men. Men do not visit a widow, no matter how active, in pairs. A British soldier and his French guide? Her house was probably a way stop for escaping soldiers. She would take them in for a night or two while papers were prepared, travel plans made.

He would have her arrested, brought to Paris for questioning. He learned long ago there were few, very few, who could withstand arduous questioning. His hand was on the telephone receiver when he paused. Instead of calling, he picked up a cigarette, lit it, blew a narrow stream of smoke toward the ceiling. There were always those who were stubborn. It might be better to be clever.

“Sergeant.”

Sgt. Schmidt got up from his smaller shabbier desk and hurried across the room. “Major.”

“Didn't Kurt Heimrich pass himself off successfully as an RAF pilot in Bordeaux?”

Schmidt nodded. “Yes, sir. So far we've picked up fifteen people involved in that circuit.”

“Get Heimrich for me. Immediately.”

“It's a lovely city. I know you will like it.” Jonathan's voice was eager.

Linda sat close beside him on the lumpy couch. Robert had gone to pick up another batch of soldiers, but, until they came, Jonathan and Linda had the apartment to themselves. They clung to a warm circle of happiness. The cold weather, the hunger and the dreaded Germans seemed far away.

Linda smiled up at him. “Oh, Jonathan, it does sound lovely. Tell me about your office.”

“I'm one of the youngest dons so it's just a little cubbyhole tucked behind the stairs in a building put up after the Great War.”

“The Great War?”

“The first world war, you know, from 1914 to 1918. That was the Great War. Until now.”

War. For a while, listening to Jonathan's descriptions of Oxford, the world had seemed a lovely place, with students in caps and gowns walking at a leisurely pace between ancient buildings and, on weekends, boating on the river, pausing sometimes at deep green pools to watch their shimmering reflections. “It would have been so wonderful.”

“Would have been?”

She didn't answer. Tears welled in her eyes.

Gently, he took her face in his hands.

“I shouldn't speak now. I have no right. We don't know what lies ahead, but I can't wait any longer. Linda, someday, when all of this is over, will you marry me?”

Eleanor hurried, her fur coat drawn tightly around her. She was late. It seemed that she was always late these days. Everything took so much time and it was damnably hard to get around with no taxis and the Metro jammed. Especially now that the weather was so bitter. Tomorrow was Saturday. She and Robert would go to early Mass again unless there was another surprise group. Twice last week, Father Laurent had sent soldiers unexpectedly. One night there had been eleven men jammed into the little apartment. It was cold there, too. My God, it was cold everywhere. The cold made everyone hungrier as if they all were not always hungry enough. Robert was very thin. Perhaps she would be able to get some eggs this afternoon. But there were always the hungry men to feed, too, and many of them had been on much less generous rations than Robert. She couldn't save the eggs for him.

For an instant, a sob hung in her throat. Hunger and cold were wearing her down. She would have to eat something today. She had been lightheaded at the hospital this morning and had almost fainted when she was passing out the cartons of food. A nurse had led her to the corridor and brought her a cup of hot sweet tea and a croissant. Just this one more stop to make and she could go home.

She reached the corner and the wind howled down the cross street, tearing at her coat, snatching her breath away. She paused to pull her muffler up over her mouth.

If she hadn't paused, if the gust of wind hadn't buffeted her at just that instant, she would never have noticed the black car sitting in the wintry shadows of the cross street.

She was so tired and cold, in such a hurry to be done, to dash into the shop and ask if the shipment of Cuban cigars had arrived, that she would never have noticed the car if she hadn't stopped at just that spot.

The car glistened with polish. It sat in the side street, its motor running. Cars belonged to Germans and the friends of Germans. No one but a German had the gasoline to let a motor idle.