Jackdaws (22 page)

When they were all ready, Bill said,
"First we're going to learn to fall from zero height. There are three
ways: forwards, backwards, and sideways."

He demonstrated each method,
dropping to the ground effortlessly and springing up again with a gymnast's
agility. "You must keep your legs together." He looked arch and
added, "As all young ladies should." No one laughed. "Do not
throw out your arms to break your fall, but keep them at your sides. Do not
worry about hurting yourself. If you break an arm it will hurt a hell of a lot
worse."

As Flick expected, the younger girls
had no difficulty:

Diana, Maude, Ruby, and Denise were
all able to fall like athletes as soon as they were shown how. Ruby, having
done it once from the standing position, lost patience with the exercise. She
climbed to the top of the stepladder. "Not yet!" Bill shouted at her,
but he was too late. She jumped off the top and landed perfectly. Then she
walked off, sat under a tree, and lit a cigarette. I think she's going to give
me trouble, Flick thought.

Flick was more worried about Jelly.
She was a key member of the team, the only one who knew about explosives. But
she had lost her girlish suppleness some years ago. Parachuting was going to be
difficult for her. However, she was game. Falling from the standing position,
she hit the ground with a grunt and cursed as she got up, but she was ready to
try again.

To Flick's surprise, the worst
student was Greta. "I can't do this," she said to Flick. "I told
you I'm no good at rough stuff."

It was the first time Greta had
spoken more than a couple of words, and Jelly frowned and muttered, "Funny
accent."

"Let me help you," Bill
said to Greta. "Stand still. Just relax." He took her by the
shoulders. Then, with a sudden strong motion, he threw her to the ground. She
landed heavily and gave a gasp of pain. She struggled to her feet and, to
Flick's dismay, she began to cry. "For God's sake," Bill said
disgustedly. "What kind of people are they sending us?"

Flick glared at him. She did not
want to lose her telephone engineer through Bill's brutishness. "Just go
easy," she snapped at him.

He was unrepentant. "The
Gestapo are a lot worse than me!"

Flick would have to mend the damage
herself. She took Greta by the hand. "We'll do a little special training
on our own." They went around the house to another part of the garden.

"I'm sorry," Greta said.
"I just hate that little man."

"I know. Now, let's do this
together. Kneel down." They knelt facing one another and held hands.
"Just do what I do." Flick leaned slowly sideways. Greta mirrored her
action. Together, they fell to the ground, still holding hands.
"There," Flick said. "That was all right, wasn't it?"

Greta smiled. "Why can't he be
like you?"

Flick shrugged. "Men," she
said with a grin. "Now, are you ready to try faffing from a standing
position? We'll do it the same way, holding hands."

She took Greta through all the
exercises Bill was doing with the others. Greta quickly gained confidence. They
returned to the group. The others were jumping off the table. Greta joined in
and landed perfectly, and they gave her a round of applause.

They progressed to jumping from the
top of the wardrobe, then finally the stepladder. When Jelly jumped off the
ladder, rolled perfectly, and stood upright, Flick hugged her. "I'm proud
of you," she said. "Well done."

Bill looked disgusted. He turned to
Percy. "What the hell kind of army is it when you get a hug for doing what
you're bloody well told?"

"Get used to it, Bill,"
said Percy.

CHAPTER

EIGHTEEN

AT THE TALL house in the rue du
Bois, Dieter carried Stéphanie's suitcase up the stairs and into Mademoiselle
Lemas's bedroom. He looked at the tightly made single bed, the old-fashioned
walnut chest of drawers, and the prayer stool with the rosary on its lectern.
"It's not going to be easy to pretend this is your house," he said
anxiously, putting the case on the bed.

"I'll say I've inherited it
from a maiden aunt, and I've been too lazy to fix it up to my taste," she
said.

"Clever. All the same, you'll
need to mess it up a little."

She opened the case, took out a
black negligee, and draped it carelessly over the prayer stool.

"Better already," Dieter said.
"What will you do if the phone rings?"

Stéphanie thought for a minute. When
she spoke, her voice was lower, and her high-class Paris accent had been
replaced by the tones of provincial gentility. "Hello, yes, this is
Mademoiselle Lemas, who is calling, please?"

"Very good," said Dieter.
The impersonation might not fool a close friend or relative, but a casual
caller would notice nothing wrong, especially with the distortion of a
telephone line.

They explored the house. There were
four more bedrooms, each ready to receive a guest, the beds made up, a clean
towel on each washstand. In the kitchen, where there should have been a
selection of small saucepans and a one-cup coffee pot, they found large
casserole dishes and a sack of rice that would have fed Mademoiselle Lemas for
a year. The wine in the cellar was cheap viii ordinaire, but there was half a
case of good scotch whisky. The garage at the side of the house contained a
little prewar Simca Cinq, the French version of the Fiat the Italians called
the Topolino. It was in good condition with a tank full of petrol. He cranked
the starting handle, and the engine turned over immediately. There was no way
the authorities would have allowed Mademoiselle Lemas to buy scarce petrol and
spare parts for a car to take her shopping. The vehicle must have been fueled
and maintained by the Resistance. He wondered what cover story she had used to
explain her ability to drive around. Perhaps she pretended to be a midwife.
"The old cow was well organized," Dieter remarked.

Stéphane made lunch. They had
shopped on the way. There was no meat or fish in the shops, but they had bought
some mushrooms and a lettuce, and a loaf of pain noir, the bread the French
bakers made with the poor flour and bran, which was all they could get.
Stéphanie prepared a salad, and used the mushrooms to make a risotto, and they
found some cheese in the larder to finish off. With crumbs on the dining room
table and dirty pans in the kitchen sink, the house began to look more lived in.

"The war must have been the
best thing that ever happened to her," Dieter said as they drank coffee.

"How can you say that? She's on
her way to a prison camp."

"Think of the life she led
before. A woman alone, no husband, no family, her parents dead. Then into her
life come all these young people, brave boys and girls on daredevil missions.
They probably tell her all about their loves and their fears. She hides them in
her house, gives them whisky and cigarettes, and sends them on their way, wishing
them luck. It was probably the most exciting time of her life. I bet she's
never been so happy."

"Perhaps she would have
preferred a peaceful life, shopping for hats with a woman friend, arranging the
flowers for the cathedral, going to Paris once a year for a concert."

"Nobody really prefers a
peaceful life." Dieter glanced out of the dining room window.
"Damn!" A young woman was coming up the path, pushing a bicycle with
a large basket over its front wheel. "Who the hell is this?"

Stéphanie stared at the approaching
visitor. "What shall I do?"

Dieter did not answer for a moment.
The intruder was a plain, fit-looking girl in muddy trousers and a work shirt
with big sweat patches under the armpits. She did not ring the doorbell but pushed
her bicycle into the courtyard. He was dismayed. Was his charade to be exposed
so soon? "She's coming to the back door. She must be a friend or relation.
You'll just have to improvise. Go and meet her, I'll stay here and
listen."

They heard the kitchen door open and
close, and the girl called out in French, "Good morning, it's me."

Stéphanie went into the kitchen.
Dieter stood by the dining room door. He could hear everything clearly. The
girl's startled voice said, "Who are you?"

"I'm Stéphanie, the niece of
Mademoiselle Lemas."

The visitor did not bother to
conceal her suspicion."I didn't know she had a niece."

"She didn't tell me about you,
either." Dieter heard the note of amiable amusement in Stéphanie's voice,
and realized she was being charming. "Would you like to sit down? What's
in that basket?"

"Some provisions. I'm Marie. I
live in the country. I'm able to get extra food and I bring some for… for
Mademoiselle."

"Ah," said Stéphanie.
"For her… guests." There was a rustling sound, and Dieter guessed
Stéphanie was looking through the paper-wrapped food in the basket. "This
is wonderful! Eggs… pork… strawberries.."

This explained how Mademoiselle
Lemas managed to remain plump, Dieter thought.

"You know, then," said
Marie.

"I know about Auntie's secret
life, yes." Hearing her say "Auntie," Dieter realized that
neither he nor Stéphanie had ever asked Mademoiselle Lemans's first name. The
pretense would be over if Marie found out that Stéphanie did not even know the
name of her "aunt."

"Where is she?"

"She went to Aix. Do you
remember Charles Menton, who used to be dean at the cathedral?"

"No, I don't."

"Perhaps you're too young. He
was the best friend of Auntie's father, until he retired and went to live in
Provence." Stéphane was improvising brilliantly, Dieter thought with
admiration. She had cool nerves and she was imaginative. "He has suffered
a heart attack, and she has gone to nurse him. She asked me to take care of any
guests while she's away."

"When will she come back?"

"Charles is not expected to
live long. On the other hand, the war may be over soon."

"She didn't tell anyone about
this Charles."

"She told me."

It looked as if Stéphanie might get
away with it, Dieter thought. If she could keep this up a little longer, Marie
would go away convinced. She would report what had happened, to someone or
other, but Stéphanie's story was plausible, and exactly the kind of thing that
happened in Resistance movements. It was not like the army: someone like
Mademoiselle Lemas could easily make a unilateral decision to leave her post
and put someone else in charge. It drove Resistance leaders mad, but there was
nothing they could do: all their troops were volunteers.

He began to feel hopeful.

"Where are you from?" said
Marie.

"I live in Paris."

"Does your aunt Valerie have
any other nieces hidden away?"

So, Dieter thought, Mademoiselle
Lemas's name is Valerie.

"I don't think so—none that I
know."

"You're a liar."

Marie's tone had changed. Something
had gone wrong. Dieter sighed and drew the automatic pistol from beneath his
jacket.

Stéphanie said, "What on earth
are you talking about?"

"You're lying. You don't even
know her name. It's not Valerie, it's Jeanne."

Dieter thumbed the safety lever on
the left of the slide up to the fire position.

Stéphanie carried on gamely. "I
always call her Auntie. You're being very rude."

Marie said scornfully, "I knew
from the start. Jeanne would never trust someone like you, with your high heels
and perfume."

Dieter stepped into the kitchen.
"What a shame, Marie," he said. "If you had been more trusting,
or less clever, you might have got away. As it is, you're under arrest."

Marie looked at Stéphanie and said,
"You're a Gestapo whore."

It was a wounding gibe, and
Stéphanie blushed. Dieter was so infuriated that he almost pistol-whipped
Marie. "You'll regret that remark when you're in the hands of the
Gestapo," he said coldly. "There's a man called Sergeant Becker who
is going to question you. When you're screaming and bleeding and begging for
mercy, remember that careless insult."

Marie looked poised to flee. Dieter
almost hoped she would. Then he could shoot her and the problem would be
solved. But she did not run. After a long moment, her shoulders slumped and she
began to cry.

Her tears did not move him.
"Lie facedown on the floor with your hands behind your back."

She obeyed.

He put away the gun. "I think I
saw a rope in the cellar," he said to Stéphanie.

"I'll get it."

She returned with a length of
washing line. Dieter tied Marie's hands and feet. "I'll have to take her
to Sainte-Cécile," he said. "We can't have her here in case a British
agent comes in today." He looked at his watch. It was two o'clock. He had
time to take her to the château and be back by three. "You'll have to go
to the crypt on your own," he told Stéphanie. "Use the little car in
the garage. I'll be in the cathedral, though you may not see me." He
kissed her. Almost like a husband going to the office, he thought with grim
amusement. He picked Marie up and slung her over his shoulder. "I'll have
to hurry," he said, and went to the back door.

He stepped outside, then turned
back. "Hide the bicycle."

"Don't worry," Stéphanie
replied.

He carried the bound girl through
the courtyard and into the street. He opened the trunk of his car and put her
inside. Had it not been for the "whore" comment, he would have put
her on the backseat.

He slammed the lid and looked
around. He saw no one, but there were always watchers in a street such as this,
peering through their shutters. They would have seen Mademoiselle Lemas being
taken away yesterday and would have remarked the big sky-blue car. As soon as
he drove away, they would be talking about the man who had put a girl into the
trunk of his car. In normal times, they would have called the police, but no
one in occupied territory would talk to the police unless they had to,
especially where the Gestapo might be involved.