To Catch a King (11 page)

Which at least left Schellenberg alone at the front, but it was hot and rather stuffy, and he was glad, after a while, to accept an invitation from the pilot to visit the flight deck.

Afterward, he went back to his seat for coffee and sat there, thinking about Hannah Winter and the trap which would be waiting for her at the Golden Coin in Montmartre. There was nothing he could do this time—he was already in too deep. There was always the possibility that she would reveal his part in her escape for, under the kind of pressure applied in the Prinz Albrechtstrasse cellars, most individuals broke in time—or died first.

He felt curiously indifferent. It was all one in the end, and he leaned forward and peered out of the window as Paris loomed below.

Kleiber appeared beside him, looking excited. “Le Bourget, General. The Führer flew in here at four in the morning of June the twenty-third with Keitel and a handful of his staff. When most Parisians were still in bed, our Führer toured their city. What a moment for Germany!”

“Marvelous,” Schellenberg said. “I hope it kept fine for him.”

* * *

A Gestapo major named Ehrlich was waiting for them when they went through into the VIP lounge.

“A distinct pleasure, Brigadeführer,” he said to Schellenberg. “A car is waiting.”

“You've had your instructions from Prinz Albrechtstrasse?”

“Yes.”

“Then you'll know that Sturmbannführer Kleiber is in charge of this affair.”

Kleiber said, “Naturally I would welcome your presence as an observer, General, if you can spare the time.”

There was a challenge there which Schellenberg could hardly refuse. “Why not? As long as I have time to visit SD headquarters at Avenue Foch before we leave, I am entirely at your service, my dear Kleiber.”

As they went out, he fingered the butt of the silenced Mauser in his pocket. If there was a melee at the Golden Coin, a stray bullet might well pass unnoticed, giving Sturmbannführer Willi Kleiber the opportunity of dying gallantly in the service of the Reich. It was a happy thought. As he got into the Citroen limousine provided, Schellenberg was smiling.

The tanker turned into the parking area beside a small truckers' café in Clichy, north of Montmartre, and Henri braked to a halt.

“Are you going to phone, or shall I?”

“No, leave it to me,” his brother said and jumped to the ground.

Henri leaned back and tapped on the bulkhead. “Okay in there?”

There was a muffled reply, and he grinned and lit a cigarette.

Inside the café, Dubois went into the telephone booth and dialed the number of the Golden Coin. The receiver at the other end was picked up instantly.

“Yes, this is the Golden Coin. What can I do for you?”

It was Madame Bonnet, but there was something in her voice, he was sure of it; an instinct produced by a lifetime of bad habits told him as much.

“Would it be possible to book a table for seven tonight?” he asked. “Chicken paprika and a good Muscadet, if you could manage it.”

“No, I'm sorry, monsieur. I'm afraid we shall not be open for business tonight.”

Paul Dubois said calmly, “Many thanks, madame. Another time.”

At the Golden Coin, half a dozen customers sat at the tables trying to look as if they were enjoying their drinks. Walter Schellenberg leaned on the end of the bar and three Gestapo agents waited behind the curtain leading to the kitchen.

Angelique Bonnet was seated at her usual place behind the desk at the side of the bar, a small gray-haired woman in a severe black dress who ruled the establishment with a rod of iron.

Her husband, called to the Reserves, had been killed at Arras. Her one consolation in life was that her son, a navigator in the French Air Force, had escaped to England.

She put down the telephone receiver and Kleiber, who had been monitoring her conversation, replaced the earpiece on its hook.

“Good.”

“But of course,” she said. “Soon I will have no customers left, and still I do not know what all this is about.”

“A tanker filled with good German wine to be delivered here by two brothers named Dubois together with an even more interesting consignment, eh?”

It was not for nothing that Ange1ique Bonnet had spent fifteen years of her youth with a provincial repertory company, and her bewilderment looked extremely convincing.

“But I know no one of that name, monsieur, and as for German wine—well, with the greatest respect, there's just no call for it here.”

Kleiber looked uncertain and glanced toward Schellenberg, who said, “Have you considered the possibility that they don't actually have any connection with the establishment, but with one of the customers?”

“Yes, that had occurred to me, naturally.”

“And the local police. They have been issued with details of the tanker?”

“A full description,” Kleiber said stiffly. “Including the number.”

“Then there should be no cause for concern.” Schellenberg turned to Angelique Bonnet. “My dear madame,” he said in fluent French, “I'm afraid I must trouble you once again for another glass of that special cognac. It really is quite excellent.”

* * *

Paul Dubois leaned into the truck. “Right, get her out, quick,” he said to Henri. “Something's up at the café.”

His brother removed the panel and pulled Hannah through. She looked about her, bewildered. “Where are we? Paris?”

“Yes,” Paul Dubois told her. “A truckers' café in Clichy. I think we're in trouble. Whenever we have a passenger like you to deliver, we always phone in, just before arrival. A prearranged code. I order a special meal for a certain number of people. If things are okay, she accepts the booking, the woman who runs the place.”

“And she didn't just now?”

“Said she was closed tonight, and I've never known the Golden Coin to close before, not even during the first days of the German Occupation.”

“So what do we do?” Henri demanded.

Paul Dubois frowned, then made his decision. “If things have gone wrong at the Berlin end, this thing could be hot,” he said, slamming his hand against the tanker. “We'll leave it here and go the rest of the way on foot. If I'm wrong, if things are okay, we can come back for it later.”

There was a small church on the hill above the square in which the Golden Coin stood. From its cemetery, they could see the café clearly, the striped awning above the tables on the sidewalk.

“There's a black sedan parked in the alley over there,” Henri said.

His brother nodded. “Another in that builders' yard to the right. Oh-oh!” he added as Major Ehrlich, wearing a dark overcoat and trilby hat, walked out of the café and started across the square.

“Know him?” Henri demanded.

“I certainly do. Name of Ehrlich. One of those Gestapo bastards from Rue des Saussaies. That does it.” He turned to Hannah. “Sorry, kid. I don't know what went wrong, but they're waiting for us down there. You're on your own.”

He nodded to Henri. They hurried away. She was alone, standing there in the cemetery, caught for a moment by the suddenness of it all. But that would never do and she, too, turned and walked away.

She knew Paris well, thanks to that six-months' cabaret engagement before the war, which was one good thing. She hurried through the streets of Montmartre, down past the Gare St. Lazare, never stopping until she at last reached the Place de la Concorde by the Seine.

She found a coffee stall with tables arranged around it. No coffee, only beer as it turned out, but she bought a glass and sat down to take stock of her situation.

She knew the city and she spoke French tolerably well and she did have a supply of francs, thanks to Uncle Max's forethought, plus the two passports, the Spanish pesos, and the letter of credit on American Express in Lisbon. And there was something else—something she'd totally forgotten until now.

With fingers that trembled slightly, she took out the railway tickets from the envelope. Berlin to Paris on the first, but the second was the important one. The berth on the sleeping car on the night train to Madrid, leaving Austerlitz Station at six o'clock.

She glanced at her watch. It was five-fifteen and Austerlitz was a good three miles away on foot. She jumped to her feet and, as she turned, saw a small delivery truck swerve into the curb. The driver, a middle-aged man in blue overalls with a drooping white mustache stained brown in the center from nicotine, tossed a bundle of newspapers onto the pavement by the coffee bar and started to move away again. Hannah ran like hell and scrambled into the passenger seat beside him.

“Hey, what's this?” he demanded.

“Please, monsieur, help me.” She pulled out her passport and held it up. “See—I'm an American citizen, on my way home. I've got a seat on the Madrid Express leaving Austerlitz at six. I decided to do a little sightseeing and got lost and I'll never make it on time now, unless you'll drive me there.” She pulled a wad of francs from the envelope. “I'll make it worth your while.”

“Keep your money.” He grinned. “American, eh? Which part? My son lives in Los Angeles. You catch your breath and sit back. I'll have you there within fifteen minutes.”

When the phone rang again, Angelique Bonnet answered it as before. “For you,” she said to Kleiber, as he reached for the earpiece. “Police headquarters.”

The expression on Kleiber's face was like a shot in the arm to Schellenberg. The Sturmbannführer replaced the phone. “They've found the tanker,” he whispered. “Apparently abandoned in the car park of a truckers' café about a mile from here.”

“So?” said Schellenberg calmly. “A wasted afternoon? My commiserations, Sturmbannführer, but if I'm to have any time at all at SD headquarters, I must leave now. I'll see you back at Le Bourget at eight o'clock.”

He went out and Kleiber stood there, one hand gripping the edge of the bar.

Angelique Bonnet said, “Is it all right if I start taking bookings for tonight now?”

Her face was quite calm, no sign of triumph there at all, and he turned from her and stalked out, crossing the square to where Sindermann and Ehrlich waited by the Citroen in the builders' yard.

“No good,” he told them. “The French police have found the tanker abandoned about a mile away. No sign of these Dubois brothers or the girl.”

“They could be anywhere by now,” Sindermann said. “God knows what her next move will be.”

It was Ehrlich who suggested the obvious. “We know her intention is to reach Spain, is it not so? There is a night train to Madrid leaving Gare d'Austerlitz at six o'clock.”

“Ridiculous,” Sindermann said. “She'd never dare.”

But Kleiber's face was ablaze with excitement. “She had a booking on that train made in Berlin by her uncle. A sleeping-car berth. So did those niggers.”

Ehrlich glanced at his watch. “Thirty-five minutes, Sturmbannführer, that's all we've got. I think we'd better get moving.”

It was just after five-thirty when the old newspaper delivery man dropped Hannah at Austerlitz Station. It was very busy—a mixture of civilians and German soldiers—and police seemed to be everywhere.

She found the correct platform for the Madrid Express and approached the gate. There was a typed list posted on the notice board beside the ticket collector, of passengers in the three sleeping cars. Her name was there in the first-class section along with Connie and the boys, a four-berth private compartment.

But to get on the train was one thing. To be known to be on it would be foolishness of the worst kind, and if she presented her ticket, the collector would mark her off on his list.

She moved some little distance away to consider the matter. At that moment, two porters passed her, pulling a chain of rubber-wheeled trucks piled high with mail. They pushed open a wide gate giving access to the platform, and Hannah, without hesitation, followed them through, staying on the left-hand side so that she was hidden from the ticket collector.

There were plenty of people on the platform, boarding the train. She walked toward the engine and finally came to the sleeping cars. A steward was standing on the platform beside the open door that gave access to the first-class coach. He was consulting a sheet he held in one hand while a distinguished-looking man in dark overcoat and Homburg hat, with a neatly trimmed gray beard, stood anxiously beside him.

“I regret to have to say it, Count, but at the moment, it would appear that every berth is taken.”

Hannah moved on past them and ducked in through the door at the other end of the coach. And there it was, only a step away: Compartment A.

She tried the handle, but the door was locked. With a sinking heart, she tried knocking. There was a muffled voice inside, then the door opened.

“What is it?” Connie Jones started to say in French, and then his face seemed to split wide open.

“Hannah-baby.”

And then she was inside, the door closing, his arms around her, Billy Joe and Harry laughing in astonished joy, and for some reason she started to cry.

The three Gestapo men reached Austerlitz at precisely five minutes to six. Harry Gray was at the small platform kiosk by the gate buying cigarettes. He recognized Kleiber at once, turned, and hurried along the platform.

“We got trouble,” he said as he went into the compartment and closed the door behind him. “That guy who interrogated us at Prinz Albrechtstrasse—Kleiber. He's just turned up at the gate. He was checking the list with the ticket collector when I left.”

“But I didn't come through officially,” Hannah said. “I may have an official booking, but I'm not supposed to be here.”

“That doesn't mean a thing. Any second now they're going to come knocking on that door. The question is, where do we put you.”

There were the four berths, two on either side, and a small toilet.

Connie shook his head. “Man, you couldn't hide a cat in here.”

Billy Joe turned to Harry with a grin. “Remember that time on the Chicago-Hollywood run? That big, fat white you-all from Alabama who didn't mind sharing with black folk as long as they was clean?”

“And we drove him out with disgust.” Harry was grinning all over his face as he started to unbutton his shirt.

Billy Joe was doing the same. “You know the story, Connie. We told you often enough. Now get her into bed real smart.”