British Bulldog (20 page)

The waiter brought a basket of bread and a butter dish.

‘You should try to eat something,’ McGregor encouraged her.

Mirabelle picked up a slice without even looking at it. ‘I wonder if they have soup,’ she said.

McGregor’s face split in an open grin. ‘That’s the spirit. Well, they probably have onion soup, won’t they? With cheese on top? I believe that’s standard rations around here.’

Mirabelle nodded. ‘And afterwards I have to go and visit someone,’ she said.

‘So Vesta’s papers were useful then?’

‘Very.’

McGregor buttered a slice of bread liberally and decided not to push her any further. Mirabelle clearly wasn’t going to give away anything willingly and he knew from experience that she was a tough nut to crack. Still, he wasn’t prepared to give up entirely. ‘Tell you what, you don’t have to say a word. I’ll just come with you. It’s a nice night for an outing. You look as though you could use a hand.’

Mirabelle considered. The Russians hadn’t seen McGregor yet. That of itself might be useful. If they were looking for her, a woman on her own, the addition of a male partner might buy some extra time.

‘Of course you can come,’ she said, relenting. ‘Where I’m going we have to pass the Eiffel Tower so at least you’ll get to see that.’

‘Vesta said that it’s a British airman you’re looking for?’

‘Missing since 1944,’ she confirmed.

‘Well, here’s to a nice little holiday finding the old fellow,’ he said.

Mirabelle sipped her wine and chose not to correct him.

Chapter 24

To be trusted is a greater compliment than being loved
.

B
y the time they left the bistro it was well after nine o’clock and Mirabelle felt a lot better now she had eaten. The night air was refreshing as they hailed a taxi on the rue Saint-Honoré and Mirabelle gave the driver directions to the rue de Siam. It was late to make a social call, but the trail had led her back to Passy and, she reasoned, she’d rather return under the cover of darkness and as soon as possible. There was no advantage to be had from waiting till the following morning; in fact it only gave the Russians longer to find her.

After ten minutes driving through deserted streets, the taxi pulled in smoothly just round the corner from von der Grün’s house. Quietened with a few francs, the driver turned off the engine. Mirabelle craned her neck to peer down the street to see if the house was being watched. The pavement was empty, not a single car parked along its length. Curtains were mostly drawn in the windows on both sides. Nevertheless, there was no harm in being careful. She directed McGregor to von der Grün’s front door while she waited anxiously in the back of the taxi, watching from a distance as he loitered for a moment and then rang the bell. In the front seat, the driver lit a cigarette and rolled down the window to let out the smoke.

Von der Grün must know what had happened to his cousin, Mirabelle reasoned. He must at least know where Caine had been for the last ten years. And if Caine was dead he’d know where he was buried. Everything seemed to revolve around
this man: Christine’s suffering, Caine’s whereabouts and Jack’s reason for being in Paris. Along the road McGregor stepped back slightly as the door opened and warm light flooded onto the pavement at his feet. Mirabelle could just make out the silhouette of the maid who had answered the door earlier. McGregor took a moment to enquire for the Comte de Vert.

‘I won’t have a clue what they’re saying,’ he had pointed out on the drive across town.

‘It will be obvious,’ Mirabelle retorted. ‘And von der Grün probably speaks English. Besides, if he’s there I’ll follow you in.’

Now she leaned forward in her seat, clutching the edge of the leather upholstery, waiting for McGregor to disappear inside the black-and-white tiled hallway – her cue to follow him. The driver threw the butt of his cigarette onto the pavement and blew a last stream of smoke into the freezing night air. On the rue de Siam, McGregor turned. The door closed without admitting him, the street was returned to amber-lit semi-darkness and the superintendent walked back to the car.

‘He’s not in. I think she said he had gone to the opera.’

‘The opera?’

McGregor nodded.

‘If it’s the national opera, it’s close to where we just came from.’ Mirabelle sounded annoyed.

McGregor checked his watch. ‘It’s only ten minutes back again.’ He liked the idea of another ride across town sitting next to Mirabelle. They had been all but silent crossing the city. He had discounted reaching out to hold her hand – she seemed too distracted. She was wearing some kind of lavender perfume, or perhaps it was only the scent of soap that lingered on her skin. In the confined back seat of the taxi he could tell it was different from the musky perfume she normally wore in Brighton.

‘They won’t let us in.’ Mirabelle cast her palm down her
outfit dismissively. ‘I’d need a cocktail dress at least, and certainly not these ridiculous boots.’

McGregor regarded his tweed suit, which was no more acceptable. He’d never been to the opera – the most he’d ever stretched to was a Saturday matinee at the Lyceum and that was years ago. He realised that whenever he was with Mirabelle the world felt larger, more sophisticated.

‘We could wait till he gets home,’ he offered. ‘It won’t take more than a couple of hours, will it?’

Mirabelle said nothing and eyed the hotel sign at the other end of the rue de Siam. The street was known to the men in the Mackintoshes – she didn’t want to spend more time there than she had to.

‘No. I’m not giving up,’ she said. ‘We’ll think of something.’ She leaned over to give the driver instructions.

The Trocadero gardens were lit up as they passed. As in all cities with grand architecture, the night lent an extra air of glamour to the Parisian streets. Here and there an enticing arcade led off the main road, lit by ornate lamps like secret passageways. The paint was often flaking but the entrances were bordered by immaculately tended bay trees. The buildings seemed formal but the passages were more friendly, as if they were byways to the real life of the city.

As the taxi pulled up a hundred yards along from the opera house there was a crush of waiting cars ahead. At the front of the building a stall selling flowers spread along the pale stone steps leading to the entrance, its business in buttonholes and corsages over for the evening. An old woman bundled in a thick woollen coat fussed over a bucket of white lilies in anticipation of the orders for bouquets to be sent to the divas after the performance. Golden angels peered down from the rooftop at her wares and large buckets of red roses punctuated the sculpted columns.

McGregor paid the driver as Mirabelle took in the building,
considering the possibilities.
Tosca
was playing tonight. There were large posters on display along the front of it. As in London, the opera houses in Paris had stopped playing German music for a long time after the war. ‘The devil has the best tunes, though. I miss Wagner,’ Mirabelle remembered Jack saying. Italian composers had benefited from more willing forgiveness, though by now even Schumann and Mahler were back on the programme at Covent Garden. The French, it seemed, cut the Germans less slack – the posters here advertised Bizet and Berlioz, Rossini, Puccini and even Ralph Vaughan Williams, but nothing German.

Checking to one side, she wondered if she might be able to sneak in through the stage door. It flashed across her mind that she could buy a bunch of flowers and insist upon delivering them to one of the dressing rooms in person. From backstage it should be possible to make her way to the public areas. But before she could move, McGregor grabbed her hand and pulled her away from the entrance. He removed the blue scarf at his neck and bundled it into a ball.

‘Put that down your dress,’ he hissed.

‘What?’

‘Down the front of your dress,’ he insisted. ‘So you look pregnant.’

Mirabelle baulked. The dress was woollen. It would be stretched beyond recognition, the line completely ruined.

‘I was planning to go in through the stage door,’ she objected.

‘This will work better. Honestly,’ McGregor insisted. ‘A pregnant tourist who needs to use the lavatory. It’ll get both of us inside. And through the main entrance too.’

Mirabelle stared. He was probably right, but she would look even more ghastly than she did already. She tried not to think too much as she shoved the scarf in place.

McGregor inspected her. ‘Higher,’ he said.

Mirabelle looked confused.

‘Haven’t you ever seen a pregnant woman? The bump sits higher.’

‘All right, all right.’

She shifted uncomfortably and presented herself for inspection once more. McGregor nodded, laid his hand on the bump to smooth it down and took Mirabelle’s gloved hand in his, placing his other arm around her waist to help her climb the steps. At the entrance a doorman hovered.

‘It’s my wife,’ he said. ‘
Ma femme
. She needs assistance.
Une toilette
.’

Mirabelle tried to look pained. The doorman maintained an even expression.

‘The opera is for ticket holders only, monsieur,’ he insisted in decisive English.

McGregor squared up. ‘Look. My wife is unwell. She’s having a baby.’ He sounded genuinely concerned. ‘You have to let us in. I’ll buy a bloody ticket if that’s what it takes.’

The doorman looked uncomfortable. He did not want to say anything about evening dress, given the circumstances, but still. Mirabelle let out a low moan to add a little pressure. She put her hand on the man’s arm as if she could hardly stand upright. He clasped it.

‘Please. I beg you,’ she gasped in perfect French. That did the trick.

‘All right.’ The man relented, pushing open the door. ‘Upstairs. But the interval is about to begin. Please, be quick.’

‘Thank you.’ McGregor led Mirabelle inside.

The hallway was magnificent. A wide carpeted stairway led upwards, splitting into two on a low landing, beyond which both sides rose to the height of the first balcony. Crystal chandeliers hung from the extensively muralled ceiling and lit the rows of pale columns that skirted the upper floor. The cornicing was gilded. Above they could just make out a crush bar
being set up, bottles of champagne popping in anticipation of the interval. McGregor firmly guided Mirabelle upwards, his hand on her arm. Von der Grün would have seats in the circle or perhaps a private box. Either way they had to get up to the first level – if he came out for a drink it would be there.

‘What does this fellow look like?’ McGregor asked.

Mirabelle laid her free hand on her belly. ‘I’m not sure,’ she admitted. ‘I’ve seen a photograph that I think was him, but it was an old one.’

‘Roughly?’

‘He must be in his early forties. In the picture, he had dark hair.’ Mirabelle grasped for more detail, realising that what McGregor had said about giving decent descriptions was entirely accurate. There had been nothing out of place in the old photograph – nothing unusual onto which she might hang the memory. ‘He looked quite ordinary,’ she admitted.

‘That’s no help to speak of.’ McGregor smiled. ‘Well, you have good enough recall for faces. Do you think you might recognise him?’

‘I hope so.’

Keeping to the wall so that the doorman below wouldn’t be able to make them out, they ignored the signs for the lavatories and edged towards a set of mahogany double doors leading to the auditorium. Without conferring, they both made for the one that would bring them out at the back on the left-hand side of the theatre – the best spot from which to survey any room without being noticed. Mirabelle noted that McGregor was better at this than she might have expected.

‘Wait here,’ she instructed, and he peeled off as she cracked the door and went inside. The sound of music hit her in a wave. In the hallway it had sounded like someone singing a long way away, but inside it was so all consuming you could drown in it. It was amazing the difference a door made. Mirabelle froze for a second as an usherette rose from a seat at
the end of the back row. It was dark and the girl didn’t appear to notice Mirabelle’s unusual footwear.

‘Madame
?’

‘
Je cherche mon mari,’
Mirabelle explained.
‘Il y a une urgence familiale
.’

The family emergency card generally worked. Slowly the girl took in Mirabelle’s apparently swollen belly and then her eyes continued downwards to the boots. She pursed her lips.

‘Son nom
?’ she asked coldly, and then enquired as to where Mirabelle’s husband might be sitting.

‘Le Comte de Vert,’ Mirabelle tried, casting around for likely candidates, hoping that mentioning the title might lengthen the girl’s patience. People made extraordinary allowances for the upper classes. There were hundreds of men in the auditorium, but the girl might remember a count. As she scanned the rows ahead she realised the male contingent of the audience formed a sea of black evening jackets between the gem-like chiffon and taffeta of the women. She didn’t even know if she was looking for grey hair or dark brown, and easily half the men fell into the right age bracket. The action on stage was coming to a climax. The female singer dramatically stabbed a man at a desk and removed a document from his grip while belting out a stirring aria. Then the applause started as the curtain began to descend. One or two people got up from their seats and left quickly by the aisle, no doubt keen to be first in the queue for the lavatories. The applause, strong for a few seconds, petered out and the low hum of conversation swept the auditorium.

And then Mirabelle spotted something. Not von der Grün. It would be almost impossible to pick him out, she realised now. Instead, as the house lights came up, her eagle eyes lighted on a woman dressed in a beautiful gown, almost the same pansy purple as Vesta’s wedding dress but fuller and cinched at the waist with a matching satin belt and diamante clasp. Her
hair was swept into an elegant chignon that set off her long diamond earrings to perfection, and as she rose to her feet and turned to leave the box where she was sitting with two men Mirabelle gasped. She was wearing a red rayon scarf, looped around her neck in a sheer slash the colour of blood. It was the scarf that Christine Moreau had delivered to the rue de Siam the night before, or one identical to it. Mirabelle turned back sharply into the hall with the usherette calling behind her.

‘I think he’s in a box with some friends.’ She waved vaguely, dismissing the girl. ‘I’ve spotted him.’

McGregor was waiting behind the door. He fell into step as Mirabelle made her way purposefully towards the right side of the hallway. The audience was flooding into the bar now, chattering and greeting each other as they bumped into acquaintances and made introductions. The opera, after all, was a social occasion as much as a cultural one. Voices rose in a heaving indistinguishable babble, discussing the performance,
le weekend,
the week’s headlines in
Le Figaro –
the business of the day.

‘Where is he?’ McGregor’s eyes darted across the sea of unfamiliar faces.

‘It’s the woman we need,’ Mirabelle said without explaining further.

It was becoming difficult to move as the tide of people crashed onto the safe shore of the bar. Drinks were passed hand to hand, the rows of champagne glasses lined up on the marble surface disappearing like knitting unravelling into a single strand of wool. Behind the bar six men were serving at speed but even that wasn’t enough to keep up.

‘I can’t see her. I need to be higher.’ Mirabelle turned away, making for the stairs to the second balcony. From the vantage of the fourth step she could make out the crowd more easily. The woman in the purple dress was sipping a saucer of champagne on the far side of the bar. Her nails were painted a glossy
pillar-box red that was completely unchipped. Beside her, frustratingly, both the men in her party had their backs to the staircase. The little group was proving popular – people thronged around them, shaking hands and making conversation, and, Mirabelle reasoned, that meant they wouldn’t move. She just had to fight her way over.