Paris

  “So I suppose,” Roland remarked to Marie, “I should be grateful to the Canadian for keeping Charlie here.”

  What a joy it was to walk in the sun with Charlie and the little boy. Roland realized with a pang that three generations of de Cygnes had never been together since sometime before the French Revolution. Dieudonné, born back in those terrible days, had never even seen his father, and had died before Roland was born. His own father had not lived to see Charlie. But now at last, after almost two centuries, a grandfather, son and grandson could all be together. Perhaps it might have been better if the little fellow had been legitimate, he admitted to himself, but one must thank the good Lord for what He gave.

  Marie took a photograph of each man standing with Esmé, and then one of the three of them standing in front of the château together. Being of the old school, Roland was reluctant to smile into the camera, but Charlie cracked a joke and Marie caught all three of them smiling in a way that was charming.

  Only one thing, like a small dark cloud in an azure sky, briefly caused irritation to Roland de Cygne. They were discussing the Canadian.

  “He speaks perfect French, you know,” Charlie told them. “Occasionally he’ll use an expression I’m not familiar with, but the interesting thing is his accent. It’s more nasal than mine.”

  “What you are hearing,” Roland told him, “is an accent trapped in time. They say that in Quebec one hears French as it was spoken back in the time of Louis XIV. Curious, but interesting.”

  “He told me that’s where his mother’s family come from. Their name is Dessigne.” He smiled. “Do you suppose it could be a corruption of de Cygne? I mustn’t tell him my name, of course. He knows me only as Monsieur Bon Ami. But perhaps we’re related. He says his mother’s family is quite numerous.”

  Roland was silent. That letter of long ago, and Marie’s later discovery. Once again he felt a sense of guilt. He’d behaved badly. But there was nothing to be done about it now.

  “It’s possible, I suppose,” he said. “Though any link would be centuries old.”

  “Well,” Charlie said cheerfully, “he’s a good fellow in any case, and a brave man.”

  And that, Roland comforted himself, was the most important thing, in a world whose secrets no living creature knows.

  So he thanked fate for sending this kinsman, if kinsman he was, to grant him these precious days with his son, and which were over all too soon.

  Each evening a little after dusk, Charlie walked out on a farm track that led through a wood on the edge of the estate. He had been there a week when, from behind one of the trees, a voice gently called to him: “Monsieur Bon Ami.”

  “Who are you?”

  “Gauloise.”

  “Where are you going tonight?”

  “Toronto.” The password.

  “Is it safe now?”

  “God knows. The police have picked up dozens of men, all over the place. English, Canadian, airmen from New Zealand. It’s a huge mess. But we have a new route now. Men we can trust.”

  “I hope he makes it. He’s a good fellow.”

  “They’re all good fellows.”

  “Wait here. I’ll get him.”

  It was a quarter of an hour before Charlie came back with Richard Bennett.

  “Good luck, mon vieux,” he said, as he embraced the Canadian. “Monsieur Gauloise will get you to Spain.” He fumbled in his pocket. “Take this.” He handed him the little lighter his father had given him. “It brings luck. You can return it to me after the war’s over.”

  “I can never thank you enough.”

  “Go safely.”

  Moments later, like shadows, the Canadian and his guide had disappeared into the night.

  The next morning, after saying good-bye to his family, Charlie returned to Paris.

  It was a pity, Louise thought, that both Colonel Walter and Schmid should be coming. It was the second week of June.

  The girls liked Colonel Walter. He was uncomplicated. His needs were those of any normal man, and his manners were excellent. She was a little surprised he didn’t keep a mistress. Did he feel it was too time-consuming? Or perhaps he preferred the amusement and variety the establishment could offer. In any case, he was always welcome.

  When Schmid turned up, however, even when he was trying to be agreeable, there was tension in the air. She was pretty sure that Colonel Walter didn’t like him, either.

  But nothing could have prepared her for the scene that took place that evening.

  They both of them came rather early, as it happened. She greeted them herself, and joined them in the salon. Two of the girls came in and one, called Catherine, started talking to Schmid. But it seemed that she displeased him in some way, and he told her rudely to go away and send him someone better-looking. The girls were used to handling all kinds of behavior, but it was obvious that Catherine was offended; and Louise was about to ask Schmid to be a little nicer when Colonel Walter intervened.

  “My dear Schmid”—his voice was silky soft, but the rebuke in it was clear—“I know you have many things on your mind, but you will find it easier to relax if you make an effort to be pleasant.”

  “I always have things on my mind, Colonel Walter.”

  It was apparently intended to close the conversation, but Walter went on, quite unperturbed.

  “My dear Schmid, the word is that you have the honor of conducting a certain visitor to the theater tomorrow night.” He shrugged. “Though what our friend Müller will make of Antigone, I cannot imagine. But if I were you, I would go home now and get a good night’s sleep, rather than exhausting yourself here tonight.”

  Müller? Louise’s face did not move a muscle. It was a common German name. There were several senior figures in the Reich who bore the name. But the effect on Schmid was remarkable.

  “May I ask where you heard this, Colonel?” His voice was icy.

  “At least two people said it to me when I was in headquarters today.” For the first time, she caught a hint of nervousness in the colonel’s voice.

  “I believe you, Colonel, because we are aware that someone has started this rumor. But I can tell you that it is entirely untrue.”

  “I understand.”

  “I hope you do, Colonel Walter. Because rumors can be dangerous.” Schmid’s voice rose. “Dangerous also for those who spread them.”

  “You are the only person to whom I have said it, I assure you.”

  “I hope so for your sake.”

  And then the mask dropped. The look that Schmid gave Walter was venomous. Gone was the deference to his rank. The Gestapo man looked like a snake about to strike. And Walter shrank with fear.

  Schmid stood up.

  “I think Colonel Walter is right. I am not good company tonight. I shall return another evening.” He made for the door. A moment later Colonel Walter hurried after him. Standing discreetly in the hall, as the two men went out the door, Louise heard Schmid hiss to the colonel: “Are you mad?”

  The door closed behind them. There was a long pause. So she did not hear Schmid turn to the colonel when they were twenty yards down the street and remark in a very different tone: “Thank you. That was perfect. Only one sad duty remains for you, if you would be kind enough.”

  When Colonel Walter returned to the house, he looked a little shaken, and asked for a whisky, rather than the usual champagne. A little while later he went upstairs with Chantal, one of the girls he liked best. But it was only half an hour before he came down again and quietly left.

  Chantal came down soon after.

  “Something’s bothering him,” she said. “He couldn’t keep it up tonight, no matter what I did.”

  It was ten o’clock the following morning when Charlie reached Max Le Sourd.

  “We have a message from Corinne. It came by the usual route this morning.”

  The note would be neatly stuck between two banknotes which Catherine, the girl Louise trusted most, would take to her home early in the morning. A
little later, going out to her local market, she would use the notes to pay a flower-seller. Within an hour, placed in an envelope, the notes would be dropped through the letter box of a safe house.

  “This could be Heinrich Müller himself,” Max said, after reading the message. Heinrich “Gestapo” Müller, the second most important man in the entire Gestapo. “It’s the first we’ve ever heard of him coming to France,” he continued, “but with the Normandy landings, it would be natural for him to pay a visit to Paris. The Germans will be dreading an uprising here.”

  “If he were to come,” Charlie took up the theme, “security would be high. I imagine it would be a secret. But someone like Colonel Walter might hear of it.”

  “If it is Gestapo Müller, I’d hate to let him slip through our fingers.” Max considered. “It might be a trap.”

  “Only if Corinne is compromised in some way. We’ve no reason to think she is.”

  “What about the play? What do you make of that?”

  “The theater’s always suspect. Anouilh’s Antigone got through the censors and the Germans have been watching it happily enough, but some people think it’s covert anti-German propaganda. He might want to see it for that reason.”

  “We haven’t much time to get organized,” said Max. “And it’s risky. But I think we have to try.”

  “Try what?”

  “To kill him, of course.”

  Luc told himself that he was worrying unduly. But he couldn’t help it. His last visit to Schmid had been very unsatisfactory. When he’d asked whether there was any news about Corinne, the Gestapo man had remarked that she had not led them to anyone yet. Then he had smiled.

  “But I am still confident.”

  “You had said you would trap her.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “May I ask how?”

  “No. But I will tell you if the outcome is satisfactory.”

  It would be a trap then. But what sort of trap? A likely method would be to feed her false information. Information she would pass on to the Resistance and incriminate herself. But what sort of information? Impossible to know. But a false lead of some kind. Something that would lead Resistance men into a trap.

  It needn’t concern him. Except for one circumstance. What if his brother were caught in the trap?

  He knew Thomas was still going out on operations. He was indefatigable. Indeed, it seemed to have given him a new lease on life. Thomas mightn’t be as fast as the younger men, but he still had a good eye, and he was reliable.

  And every time he did so, of course, Thomas put himself at risk. Common sense told Luc he shouldn’t worry about it. That was Thomas’s choice, and his own business.

  Yet the thought that his informing on Louise could cause his brother’s death, or worse, his arrest and torture, preyed upon his mind. Was there some way he could persuade him not to go out anymore? Could he warn him off?

  He started to spend more time at the restaurant. As the days went by, Thomas seemed quite content minding the bar. The two of them would chat for an hour or two. There was no hint of any other activity.

  He was in the restaurant soon after noon one day when he noticed two of the young Dalou men approach the bar and start talking to Thomas. He might not have paid much attention if he hadn’t caught sight of Édith. As she stared across at her husband and the two Dalous, her face froze. Lines of anxiety suddenly appeared. Luc went over to her.

  “Are you all right? Is something wrong?” he asked.

  “Yes. No. It’s nothing.”

  After a few minutes, the two Dalou men left and he saw Édith go over to Thomas immediately afterward. She was saying something urgent to him. He was listening, but it was clear that she wasn’t getting anywhere. Luc saw Édith take Thomas by the arm, and saw Thomas shake his head.

  When Édith came back, he could see she was close to tears.

  Luc wondered what to do. He’d like to have intervened, told Thomas some story that he’d heard from one of his contacts that the Germans were going to set up traps to catch Resistance groups. But he couldn’t do that. It would have invited further questions, awkward ones. They might ask him, “How do you know?” Besides, if this was Schmid’s trap, and the Resistance failed to take the bait, then Schmid would surely conclude that the leak must have come from him.

  No, he couldn’t do that. But at least he could try to dissuade his brother from going.

  He called to Édith.

  “I saw what you saw. The Dalou boys. There’s no need to say anything, Édith. Thomas doesn’t tell me about what he does, and I accept it. But I’m not a fool.” He paused. “Do you know why I’ve been around so much lately? Because I started having nightmares. I don’t know why. I never had them before. But I started having nightmares about my brother being caught. They won’t go away. I’m afraid for him.”

  “Tell him,” she said urgently. “You have to tell him at once.”

  “All right.” He got up. “He won’t thank me, but I’ll do it.”

  And he did. He told him about the dream that kept returning, and begged his brother: “I don’t want to know what you’re up to. That’s not my business. But don’t go out with the Dalou boys or anyone else. Just enjoy your old age and keep your wife company. She’s worried sick about you.”

  Thomas looked across to where Édith was standing and nodded thoughtfully.

  “You may be right, Luc,” he said. “Perhaps I should stop.” He shrugged. “But when one has made commitments, you know …”

  Luc stared at his brother sadly. Whatever he had agreed to with the Dalous, he was going to do. That was clear.

  “Listen,” said Luc. “I’m going to tell you a secret. I’ve been worried about you. Do you remember a certain place that we went to years ago? A secret place, under the ground, that nobody knows?”

  The cave under Montmartre. Thomas didn’t look pleased to be reminded of the incident.

  “What of it?” he said.

  “I’ve put provisions in there for you. If ever you need to hide, you could stay in there quite a while.” He might have prepared it for himself, Luc thought, but who should he share it with if not with his brother? “Don’t tell anyone, not the Dalou boys, or any of your friends, or even Édith. If nobody knows, nobody can tell. No one comes by my house, as you know, so I won’t lock the door. But if ever you need it, go there at once.”

  “All right,” said Thomas.

  Schmid was pleased with his arrangements. The key to a successful operation was simplicity. The object of the mission was to discover if Louise and Corinne were one and the same. Everything, therefore, was subordinate to that.

  There were three cars, all full of Gestapo men. In the middle car were three men dressed in the uniform of senior Gestapo officers, one as a general. All three were prisoners, due to be shot. They had been told that if they played their parts well, their lives would be spared. The one dressed as a general looked very like Müller.

  There would be some police around, of course, but not too many. This was supposed to be a discreet private visit. And he wished to provide the Resistance men with a tempting target. He didn’t want to put them off. They must be allowed to make the attempt on the man they thought was Müller. If they did, then he knew the identity of Corinne. He would arrest her. And then he would see what she could tell him.

  The efforts of the police were entirely secondary. Only after the attempt was made were they allowed to move. If they could catch some Resistance men, that was a bonus.

  “Try to take at least one of them alive,” he instructed. “I may be able to identify a corpse,” he told the senior police officer, “but a man we can interrogate is worth a hundred corpses.”

  The bait was in the trap. Now all he had to do was see if the bait was taken.

  The Théâtre de l’Atelier lay in the section of the city just below the steep slope of the park that led up to the great white basilica of Sacré Coeur upon Montmartre.

  It was a modest, rectangular building
, suitable for an artistic and intellectual audience rather than the fashionable beau monde. At its western end was a three-door entrance under a small columned porch, and in front of that, a cobbled area not even a hundred feet long, dotted with small trees.

  Max had been thorough. He and Charlie would stand in the hallway of an apartment building beside the little café just to the north of the theater entrance. He’d already spent two hours carefully exploring the small gardens and alleyways behind the building. With windows carefully unlatched, they would be able to run through this little maze and emerge into the next parallel street to the north, which gave directly onto the steep park. From there they could run through the trees and into the tangle of streets on the eastern side of the hill.

  At six different vantage points on the streets approaching the theater, he had a man stationed. The two young Dalous, three other men of his own, and on the street nearest the park, old Thomas Gascon.

  There was no question, the old man was very game.

  “It’s funny how they call us the Maquis these days,” he remarked. “And they say that’s the countryside down in the south of France. But the real Maquis is right here, where these boys and I come from.” He gave the Dalou boys a grin. “The Maquis up on the hill of Montmartre.”

  For all the old man’s cheerful resilience, Max was still concerned that Thomas might be too slow. But he’d surprised Max by running down the street and back quite swiftly, and since Max hadn’t time to find more men, he’d said a prayer and retained Thomas where he was. Since his station was right beside the park, he should be able to vanish into the trees before any pursuers even reached that street.

  Each of these men had a whistle that made a piercing sound. If they saw anything that looked like an ambush, they were to blow hard on their whistle, and vanish.