Stranger at the Gates (10 page)

‘I take it he's not the strutting Nazi type?' He had cold eyes; however much he smiled, it stopped at his mouth. There was something about him which made Louise uncomfortable.

‘No, he's certainly not that. He's rather quiet. He's a staff officer.'

‘I know,' Savage said. ‘Reliable, a bit stuffy, tries to show it's not his fault the others are such bastards. I can imagine.'

‘He wants to be friends,' Louise said. ‘He brings us things—luxuries—my husband takes them. I hate him.'

‘That must be distressing,' Savage said. ‘Since I guess you're the one he wants to be friends with …'

‘That isn't true!' She felt herself changing colour.

‘It ought to be,' Savage said. ‘Unless he's a fag. Married, isn't he?'

‘Yes. How did you know?'

‘Never mind. Go on talking about him. What happens here in the evenings?'

‘He has dinner with us; Jean insisted on it. I couldn't stop him. Then he comes and sits in here; I often go to bed early, I hate sitting with him. Sometimes he goes straight up to his room and works.'

‘How much work does he bring back?'

‘I don't know. He has a briefcase with him; I never go near his room, I don't know what he does.'

‘And he gets on well with your husband. What do they talk about—the war?'

‘Sometimes. Books and music. He likes music very much. He gave my father-in-law some records.'

‘He sounds ideal,' Savage mocked. ‘When does your husband get home?'

‘Soon now. It must be nearly three. What am I going to tell him—if he thought for one moment you were …'

‘Don't even say it.' Savage stood up. ‘Don't say it and don't think about it. You don't need to explain about him; I know all about him, so don't worry. You just stick to the story. I'll be up in my room when he gets back. It'll be easier for you if I'm not there. He won't be surprised; the Swiss are hogs for sleep. Just remember I'm your cousin Roger.'

‘The real Roger Savage never visited the States,' Louise said. ‘How did you know about him?'

‘Through contacts,' he said. ‘He died in Lausanne two years ago. Motor smash. Actually he was a drunk. We did our homework properly. Nobody can pick any holes. Play it straight and your husband will believe you.'

‘I won't have to go into much detail,' she said. ‘We haven't much to say to each other any more. He goes one way and I go another.'

‘Good,' Savage said. ‘That makes it easier. Let's find my room.'

She took him up the broad stone stair, past her room and to the floor above. His suitcase, securely locked, was on a chaise longue by the end of the bed. It was a large room, furnished in old-fashioned floral chintz; it had a Victorian atmosphere, emphasised by a mahogany four-poster bed. There was a faint smell of must and stale air. Louise apologised and opened the window.

Savage went and looked out.

‘I'd hate to leave here in a hurry,' he said. ‘That's a forty-foot drop. Who sleeps near?'

‘I do,' she said. ‘On the floor below. My husband's two rooms away from mine; Minden is down the passage, my sister-in-law is next to you.'

‘You haven't mentioned her,' Savage said. He sat on the edge of the bed and bounced gently up and down. ‘Comfortable mattress. Where is she?'

‘In Paris,' Louise answered. ‘She's a student at the Sorbonne. She lives with Jean's aunt and she comes home for odd weekends. She'll be here for dinner this evening.'

‘Is that nice, or nasty?'

She shrugged, as she had done when he asked about the Major. ‘She doesn't bother me. We've nothing in common and we know it.'

‘How would you describe her as far as I'm concerned? Friend or foe?'

‘Foe,' Louise said slowly. ‘I'd say definitely—foe. For God's sake, watch yourself!'

‘I will, don't worry,' Savage said. He got off the bed and came towards her. ‘I'll unpack now. You go back downstairs and look like somebody with a long-lost cousin.' He closed the door and locked it. He hung his coat over a chair back, and went to the suitcase. The clothes were innocent, the ammunition for his gun was concealed as a box of cigars. Each cigar held four bullets; built into the false bottom of the suitcase was a small two-way radio transmitter set. Savage went to the window again and looked out. The view was so beautiful he paused. Chequerboard fields of green wheat and bright yellow mustard, belts of trees outlined against the sky, bending in symmetry before the wind. Below him the gardens of the Château, hedges and yew walks, flower beds—from above it wasn't possible to see the weeds and the signs of neglect. In the courtyard the stone fountain threw up a meagre spray.

There were no ledges, no windows near him; if anything went wrong he was as effectively trapped in the room as a prisoner in a cell. Transmission from there was impossible. He would have to get on the roof; and for that he would need Louise de Bernard's help. It had been easy to say he wouldn't tell her anything, to pretend she could be kept on the perimeter. It was a glib lie in one sense but a necessity in the other. The less she knew the less she could tell the Gestapo if she were arrested. But without her help he couldn't hope to complete his mission. Frederick Brühl. Savage knew the face as if it were his own. There were few pictures of him, many were pre-war civilian snapshots. The latest showed him among a crowd, wearing his peaked cap, a blurred and grainy image which had lost outline when it was blown up. Spectacles, a stubby nose, small mouth with rather full lips. A most unremarkable man. Savage stood by the window with the panorama of a peaceful countryside below him, and saw nothing but that face. And then another face, laughing and with hair dishevelled by wind, streaked across the forehead. Eyes that were wide and bright, half closed against the sun, a brown hand raised to shield them. And then the image changed. Savage slammed imagination's door. Brühl … He could think about Brühl, and his hands curled into fists, he could let the hate rise in him. It was safe to think about Brühl, it was like giving the batteries of his purpose a recharge. If he had been afraid for himself or concerned for other people, like the American Comtesse de Bernard, the old woman in the village he had shot in the back the night before, he had only to think about the reason why he was in St. Blaize. Nothing and nobody mattered but to succeed. He pulled the window shut. His chiefs in OSS had chosen well. They had chosen a man with a personal reason, knowing that the force of motive would send him on when other men might have turned back.

And they had made a wise choice when they picked on Louise de Bernard as his liaison. She was brave and she was honest; would hold up well enough to reasonable pressure. She was reliable. She was also going to help him more than either of them knew. He had been sent to St. Blaize because a member of Brühl's staff was living in the house of a collaborator with an American wife of Allied sympathies. Major Heinz Minden. What he made of his situation was up to him. Time, as the sarcastic English Colonel had impressed on him, was not on Savage's side. He had a few days, a week at the most, to make the invasion safe. A tremendous burden. He could hear the pedantic voice, unmasculine in pitch, repeating the remark. The responsibility was almost too much to place upon one man. If he had any doubts—Savage hadn't believed in the offer; they had told him too much to let him off the hook. It was part of the game, part of the tests applied to agents like him. He had given the Englishman a look of contempt and not bothered to answer. Major Heinz Minden. Not the strutting Nazi type; unobtrusive, Louise had called him, anxious to be friends. He remembered the colour coming into her face when he suggested that Minden might be interested in her. Which of course he must be. She was a beautiful woman. Her hostility probably intrigued him. Some men were like that. He would need her help in setting up the transmitter. It was to be used once only. To report on the success of his mission. If he failed there wouldn't be a message. He took his shoes off and lay on the bed. Somehow he had to Ilse Minden in his plan. Possibilities flitted through his mind, but didn't stay. Until he met him and could make a judgement, it was premature. He had a strong intuition that the part Louise de Bernard was going to play would be a vital one. He couldn't afford to be sorry about it, but he was. He liked her. But that wouldn't stop him. He didn't hear the Comte de Bernard's car come up the gravel drive. He was making up for the sleep he had lost in the fields the night before.

Jean de Bernard had spent the morning in the Mairie; he and Albert Camier were shut up in the little office on the first floor, and the air was blue with cigarette smoke. Camier had sent for wine.

‘We don't want trouble.' The Mayor repeated it again. ‘We have to think of the village. Trade has improved since they came to the Château Diane; my own business is doing very nicely. We don't want any Allied agents here!'

‘Even if there is an invasion,' Jean de Bernard said, ‘it could fail—nobody beats them on equal terms. Russia was different. That was the winter. They'll throw the Allies back into the sea, and who will suffer then? We will. If we've turned against them, they'll crush us to pieces.'

‘They haven't taken our men,' Camier said, sipping at his wine. ‘We've no Jews here, thank God, so that's no problem. They buy from us and so long as we obey the law, we're left alone. There are no more Palliers in St. Blaize, Monsieur, depend on it. If someone's come to this district to make trouble, they've picked the wrong place!'

‘They've given me this proclamation to put up.' He pulled a roneoed sheet out of a drawer and handed it to Jean. ‘I thought I'd write something myself and sign it.'

The sheet of paper informed the inhabitants that anyone found sheltering enemy agents would be shot; it was signed by the district commander. A different man to the indignant German who had dined with him the night the Palliers were executed. He had been very indignant; Jean remembered how hard it had been to calm him. He looked up at Camier.

‘You put a notice up,' he said. ‘Warn the people.'

‘Why should we die for the British?' the old man said. ‘What have they ever done for us—I remember my father saying, they'll fight to the last Frenchman! If we do have to live under the Germans it's not that bad.'

‘The Comtesse would not agree with you,' Jean said. He refused more wine.

‘With respect for Madame,' Camier said, ‘women aren't the ones to judge. We men have the responsibility. Thank God you've given such a good example; it's made a great difference.'

‘We're a tired people,' Jean said slowly. ‘Bled white by wars. We need peace, and time to recover ourselves. They won't be here for ever. France will survive them. That is what matters. I must go now. Since Madame Pallier had no relatives, there's nothing we can do.'

‘It's a pity about the shop.' The mayor shook his head. ‘It was a nice little place, good position. She did quite well. Mind you, it could be rebuilt …'

He spoke more to himself; he owned the grocery and wine store, and he supplied the officer's mess at Château Diane. If he were to buy the site of the Palliers' bakery and build—it wouldn't be easy. He'd have to get permits for labour and building materials, but then he was on good terms with the district headquarters; someone there might recommend him. He was known for his co-operation with the Government and the occupation forces. He might open a second grocery store, or else employ a baker. He got up quickly as Jean prepared to leave. He shook the Comte's hand, making a little bow. He was not in such awe of the family as he might have been if the war hadn't changed everything. They held comparatively little power. That was in German hands.

Jean started his car and drove slowly back to the Château. Camier's wine was sour on his stomach; the stench of smoke from the smouldering ruin of the bakery clung to his clothes. He had talked to people, taken council with Camier, who was typical of his class and age. Cunning, commercial-minded, concerned with the realities of survival. Men like him abounded, and they made the task of governing France so easy for the conquerors. He remembered his short war service, the overwhelming numbers and efficiency of the enemy, the sense of being swept away like sand before a tidal wave. Men he had known since childhood had thrown their weapons away and turned for home. His people's spirit waned and died; for some it was not so much a rape as a seduction. They welcomed the German strength as an antidote to their own national weakness. France could be great again, and powerful again; what had revived a crippled, beaten Germany within twenty years might well be the saving medicine for ailing France. He knew many who believed this. He had friends who were more Nazi than the S.S. whose attitudes they imitated.

The Jews had always been unpopular; now they were hated. When the Germans asked for Jews, their French neighbours helped to round them up. He frowned, deepening the line between his brow, ashamed of his own knowledge. The Comte in his Château, the Mayor in his grocery store, the people going about their work and living their lives in St. Blaize. For what should they fight, at this late stage? For Allies who were their hereditary enemies, and who blamed them for their surrender? For a place in a world which would be dominated by outsiders, by Americans who had stayed neutral until Japan attacked them—by England, the foe of centuries … He turned into the driveway and slowed down, protecting the loose-laid gravel. Louise thought he was a coward. But then they judged by different standards. The difference in priorities was as fundamental as her desire to fight a war which was already lost and thereby lose the chance of gaining from the peace. She despised him; he didn't blame her. He loved her, as he had always done. He accepted her rejection because he knew she couldn't change. He accepted his own suffering for the same reason.