Citadel

  ‘Yes,’ she admitted.

  ‘I’m not in the slightest bit interested in what you were doing, Mademoiselle Ménard, or who you were with. I merely want to know the name of the girl you picked up.’

  ‘It was three weeks ago,’ she said.

  For a moment, Lucie saw a glint of irritation in his eyes, but he quickly smothered it and continued in the same pleasant tone. She dug in her pocket and pulled out a packet of cigarettes and a box of matches. She took out a cigarette and tried to open the matches, but her hands were shaking and they spilled all over the floor. She bent down, started to try to pick them up.

  Authié stepped forward with a lighter. ‘Here,’ he said, then collected the scattered matches and put them on the workbench beside her.

  Lucie tried to laugh. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t know what’s got into me. I’m not sleeping very well, I . . .’ She drew on the cigarette.

  ‘To be clear, you were driving past Païchérou on that Monday morning and you picked up a passenger, am I right?’

  ‘I don’t . . . I may have done.’

  ‘Come now,’ he said, sounding amused.

  She wrapped her arms tightly around herself, feeling the ladder of her ribs beneath the thin cotton. ‘Yes, all right, I did.’

  ‘And what was her name?’

  She tried to shrug. ‘I didn’t ask.’

  Authié raised his eyebrows. ‘You helped a girl, took her home, without ever asking her name?’

  ‘It wasn’t my business.’

  ‘All right,’ he said. ‘Can you tell me where you took her, at least?’

  ‘I . . . I can’t rightly remember. As I say, it was more than a fortnight ago. Nearly three weeks.’

  Lucie felt herself growing red under his scrutiny. She took another drag of the cigarette, but it didn’t help. If anything, it was making her feel more sick. She hadn’t eaten today. Had very little appetite at all these days. She stubbed it out on the edge of the bench, then put the stub in her pocket.

  ‘You weren’t alone that day, though, were you?’ he said quietly.

  Lucie felt the floor go out from under her. ‘I – I can’t remember, really I can’t.’

  ‘Wouldn’t you like to know where he is, Mademoiselle Ménard?’ he said softly. ‘Your friend.’

  Lucie stared at him. Could this man tell her what had happened to Max? Even Suzanne had failed to find out anything. This Authié might help her. She had no status, she wasn’t a relative or his wife, they didn’t have to tell her anything.

  ‘Do you know where he is?’ she said in a rush, all caution forgotten. ‘I’m going out of my mind with worry and no one will tell me anything.’

  Authié stared at her, then carried on as if she hadn’t spoken.

  ‘We have reason to believe the young lady you helped was the victim of an assault. I understand your discretion, of course I do. I applaud it. But there have been one or two attacks on women recently. Unpleasant. If she saw something, it might help us catch this man.’

  Lucie’s hand stole to her stomach. What if she never found out where Max had been taken? Whether he was even still alive? In any case, what harm could it do to give him Sandrine’s name? She’d gone to the police station herself. Lucie would only be passing on information they already had.

  ‘She reported the attack to the police the day it happened,’ she said. ‘You must already have her details on file.’

  For an instant, she thought she saw surprise flicker in the man’s eyes, though it was masked immediately.

  ‘It takes time for information to work its way through the system,’ Authié said casually, ‘as you can imagine. That’s why I’m here now. To speed things along.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘As regards Monsieur Blum,’ Authié said, ‘I can make no promises, but it’s possible I could expedite matters.’ He leant back against the wooden strut of the workbench. ‘A name for a name, as it were. A fair exchange, wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘It’s been nearly three weeks,’ Lucie said, a catch in her voice. ‘No one will tell me anything.’

  Authié spread his hands wide. ‘So, now. Are you sure you don’t remember her name?’

  Lucie’s head told her not to say anything. Let Captain Authié find things out on his own. But her heart sang a different tune. Since the day of the demonstration, she’d barely slept. The instant her head touched the pillow at night, her mind was filled with images of Max handcuffed and beaten, imprisoned on a train, being sent she didn’t know where.

  The worst thing of all was that she felt guilty. Guilty that she had been with Marianne and Sandrine the evening he had been arrested, had drunk too much and fallen asleep on the sofa. If she had known what had happened earlier, perhaps she would have been able to do something. Get him released. Done something, anything.

  ‘Mademoiselle Ménard?’

  Captain Authié was offering her a chance to find out where Max had been taken. Then, at least, she could write to him. Start to try to get him home, sort out the misunderstanding.

  ‘Her name’s Vidal,’ she said. ‘Sandrine Vidal.’

  Chapter 60

  For a moment, the words seem to hang in the air between them.

  ‘A name for a name, you said,’ Lucie said desperately.

  ‘I am a man of my word, Mademoiselle Ménard.’

  Lucie flushed. ‘Of course. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to suggest otherwise.’ She faltered. ‘Please.’

  ‘Blum was in a consignment of prisoners sent to Le Vernet on the fifteenth of July.’

  Lucie felt the air go out of her. She dropped her hand to the bench to steady herself. Of all the camps, she’d heard Le Vernet was the most notorious.

  ‘His papers are in order,’ she said in a hollow voice. ‘Why was he arrested?’

  ‘The details are not clear.’

  ‘But what am I going to do?’ she cried. ‘Really, I can’t bear it.’

  Authié looked at her. ‘If Monsieur Blum has done nothing and his papers are in order, then he has nothing to fear. You, Mademoiselle Ménard, have nothing to fear.’

  ‘If that was true, I—’

  ‘It’s even possible I could arrange for you to see him.’

  Colour flooded Lucie’s pale face. ‘Oh . . .’

  ‘In return for a little help, Mademoiselle Ménard.’

  ‘But I told you Sandrine’s name.’

  ‘I would like to speak to Mademoiselle Vidal,’ he continued smoothly. ‘We have her address on file, of course, as you said. But if you know it, that would be a great help. Speed everything up.’

  ‘Rue du Palais,’ she said. ‘She lives with her sister and housekeeper. The house with coloured tiles.’

  Again the words – Judas words – seemed to hover in the air.

  ‘You see?’ he said pleasantly. ‘That wasn’t so hard, was it?’

  ‘What about Max?’ she said quickly. ‘Can you arrange for me to see him?’

  Authié put on his hat. ‘I shall look into the situation. I’ll be in touch if there is any news.’

  ‘When will that be?’ she said, desperate not to let him go until she had an answer.

  He pulled open the sliding doors. ‘Thank you for your help, mademoiselle. I’ll see myself out.’

  Lucie listened to his footsteps echoing down the corridor, then the sound of the front door opening and closing. She slumped down against the bench. She felt hollow and weak, but for the first time in three weeks, there was hope.

  She took the stub of the cigarette from her pocket and managed to strike and hold the match. This time, it calmed her beating heart. She kept telling herself she’d done nothing wrong.

  He had Sandrine’s name already. He only had to check the files.

  Lucie thought for a moment more, then went into the house to the telephone. She should at least tell Marianne what had happened. She’d not seen much of her or Suzanne since Sandrine left. She’d not visited the rue du Palais.

  She dialled the number. The li
ne was busy. Lucie shut her eyes and tried to picture Max’s face. Captain Authié hadn’t come flanked by officers or threatened her. And he could help Max. He had promised. Almost promised, at least.

  ‘A name for a name,’ she murmured, dialling again.

  This time, the number rang, but nobody answered. If she couldn’t get through, she’d have to go to the rue du Palais in person. She didn’t want to. Marianne would be impatient and high-minded. She always was. She wouldn’t understand how finding Max had to take priority over everything else. And it was so hot and she felt so unwell.

  Lucie’s hand went to her stomach again. She had to think of the future.

  Chapter 61

  Authié went directly from the boulevard Omer Sarraut to the Commissariat to check the police files. There was nothing on Sandrine Vidal, but it appeared there was a substantial surveillance file on her sister, Marianne.

  A teacher at the Lycée des Filles on Square Gambetta, her name was on a list of teachers who had refused to implement the new academic curriculum. She had continued to teach Jews alongside French students, declined to carry out monitoring. Undesirable authors such as Brecht, Zweig and Heine remained on the shelves in her classroom. The father and mother were both dead. The only other resident of the house was a housekeeper, who had been with the family for years.

  Authié re-emerged into the sunlight and looked at his wristwatch. He had plenty of time before Bauer was due to call, enough time to visit the house himself. Five minutes later he was standing in the rue du Palais looking up at the impressive façade. Vidal had clearly left his daughters well provided for. Plenty of space, he thought. The sort of house that might well be used by partisans for any number of purposes.

  Authié walked up the steps and knocked. He heard muffled voices, then footsteps. The door was opened by a tall woman with short cropped hair and slacks.

  ‘Mademoiselle Vidal?’

  The woman folded her arms. ‘No.’

  ‘Is Mademoiselle Vidal at home?’

  ‘Who wants to know?’

  Authié reached into his pocket and produced his identification. The woman read it, hesitated, then stood back to let him in.

  ‘Who is it?’ came a voice from inside.

  ‘Police,’ the tall woman said, closing the front door.

  Authié walked into the salon before she could stop him. A slender, brown-haired woman sitting on a sofa beneath the window immediately got to her feet.

  ‘Marianne Vidal?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And your friend?’

  ‘A guest,’ she said. ‘What can I do for you, monsieur?’

  ‘Authié. Captain, in fact,’ he said. ‘And your guest’s name?’

  ‘Is this relevant, Captain Authié?’

  Authié’s interest quickened. Her expression was wary. Most ordinary citizens were nervous in the presence of the police, but there was a watchfulness in this woman’s eyes that suggested something more guarded.

  ‘Don’t be obstructive, Mademoiselle Vidal.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to give that impression.’

  Authié turned to the other woman, who answered.

  ‘Suzanne Peyre.’

  ‘What can I do for you, Captain Authié?’ asked Marianne.

  ‘It’s your sister, Sandrine, I want to talk to. Is she here?’

  Again the same flash of alarm, though her voice gave no indication of it.

  ‘I’m afraid not.’

  ‘Do you have any idea how long she might be?’

  ‘I’m sorry, no.’ She smiled pleasantly.

  Authié’s gaze hardened. ‘Where is she, Mademoiselle Vidal?’

  Marianne kept her expression in place. ‘I don’t know, I’m afraid. She went out first thing this morning. I didn’t see her leave.’

  ‘Perhaps your housekeeper might know,’ he said. ‘Fetch her, please.’

  ‘I’ll go,’ said Suzanne, immediately leaving the room.

  Marianne paused. ‘May I ask why you want to talk to my sister?’

  ‘I believe it was someone called Lucie Ménard and her friend – a Jew – who came to the help of your sister after her unfortunate accident.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘You were aware your sister was the victim of a crime committed three weeks ago. Monday the thirteenth of July?’

  ‘Not a crime, Captain Authié,’ she said calmly. ‘She had an accident. Came off her bike, that’s all.’

  ‘Mademoiselle Ménard told me she was attacked.’

  ‘Mademoiselle Ménard is mistaken.’

  ‘The report at the police station says your sister claimed to have been attacked.’

  The reaction was tiny, immediately masked, but it was there all the same.

  ‘It’s true my sister went to the Commissariat straight away, Captain Authié, but frankly I was cross with her for wasting police time. I believed – and still do – that her injury was the result of an accident.’

  Despite himself, Authié was impressed with her self-control. ‘You thought she was making it up?’

  ‘I think she was muddled after the accident.’

  ‘So you were not aware there have been several attacks on women in Carcassonne, Mademoiselle Vidal?’

  Marianne held his gaze. ‘I was also under the impression that since the victims have all been Jewish, the police were not taking the matter seriously.’

  Authié raised his eyebrows. ‘Are you criticising the police, mademoiselle?’

  ‘An observation, Captain Authié.’

  ‘You confuse Carcassonne with Paris, Mademoiselle Vidal.’

  ‘I hope that’s the case, Captain Authié.’

  He paused. ‘Your sister did not say anything about her assailant?’

  ‘She said all sorts of things, which, as I mentioned, I’m afraid I didn’t take seriously. I no longer recall the ins and outs of the conversation. It’s nearly three weeks ago.’

  ‘She did not mention the name Raoul Pelletier, for example?’

  And there it was for the third time, Authié thought, a spark of knowledge.

  ‘Marieta seems to have slipped out,’ Suzanne Peyre said, appearing in the doorway.

  Authié looked from one woman to the other. ‘I appear to be out of luck,’ he said wryly. ‘I shall have to come back later and hope your sister will be back. Or perhaps return to speak to Mademoiselle Ménard. She was inclined to be helpful. She might remember something else.’

  He lifted his hat, then strode back into the hallway and out of the house without giving them the chance to respond. Authié crossed the street and turned to look back at the building. Had the girl been sent away, perhaps? It seemed strange that both she and the housekeeper were not at home. He wondered what Suzanne Peyre had been doing to have been away from the room for so long. He was impatient to return to the office to see if there was a file on her too.

  He felt a prickling on the back of his neck, certain he was being watched. In the house next door to the Vidals, a curtain dropped back into place, but it was long enough for him to recognise the woman inside. He knew one of his informers lived in the quartier du Palais, but hadn’t realised it was this house. He walked up the steps.

  ‘Madame Fournier,’ he said, when she answered the door. ‘I wonder if I might prevail upon you?’

  Chapter 62

  TARASCON

  Erik Bauer dabbed at his neck with his handkerchief, the flattering August sun too much for his northern blood. He took off his hat, fanned his face, shifting the still air, then put it back on his head.

  Bauer was proud to be a member of the Ahnenerbe. As a boy, he had read Wolfram von Eschenbach’s grail writings and the great Germanic legends, celebrated the music of the Minnesingers. Like the Führer himself, Bauer had stood before the Spear of Longinius in its glass case in the Hofburg Museum in Vienna. When the Habsburg Treasures were moved from Austria to Nuremberg after the Anschluss, Bauer had applied to the Ancestral Heritage Research and Teaching
Society, under the leadership of Reichsführer Himmler, and finally been accepted. He was one of thousands of scientists and historians all over the world – Egypt, South America, France – seeking artefacts to prove the historic existence of a superior, an Aryan, race and to substantiate its claims. The grail books of the Cathars, the lost treasure taken from the Temple of Solomon after the Sack of Jerusalem, other objects of antiquity said to be hidden within the mountains of the Languedoc. He despised Rahn and had been one of those who’d denounced him for his degeneracy, but he had found the man’s writings compelling all the same. Bauer hoped that if he could find the key, even the Codex itself, then he would come to the attention of those higher in the party.

  He was convinced that this particular network of caves between Niaux and Tarascon was not going to yield results. They had been thoroughly excavated before the war with no significant success. Even so, he wished to guard against anyone else gaining access in case he was mistaken. He knew the locals would swarm all over the site as soon as they had gone.

  ‘Obersturmführer?’

  The chief engineer, a stocky, bull-like man, was waiting for orders.

  Bauer nodded. ‘Beginnen Sie.’

  Bauer watched the foreman instruct his men to place the dynamite charges at equal intervals along the opening to the cave, a little distance from the ground. Once set, another man climbed above and placed three along the upper edge of the rock face. In natural rock falls and landslides, there was usually a section where the rock was thinner. Bauer wanted to make sure there were no weak places through which someone could gain access.

  The foreman uncoiled the wires that led to the charge box, then carried the device as far away from the opening to the caves as he could.

  ‘Ist es bereit?’ Bauer asked. It’s ready?

  The foreman nodded. Bauer and the three other men took cover, then the foreman depressed the handle. The dynamite did its work. An immediate crump, then the force of the explosion snaking through the ground. A moment of suspended silence, then the rumble of rock as the cave entrance began to collapse in upon itself.