Stranger at the Gates (11 page)

If it was borne with patience, some good would come out of it. He went into the dark entrance hall, and shivered. It was high vaulted, stone walled, with two large Flemish tapestries hung down one side; the temperature was chill.

‘Jean?'

He turned and saw his wife facing him, standing in the doorway of the salon.

‘I wanted to come with you this morning. You should have waited.'

‘I'm sorry; you were still asleep. There was nothing you could have done. The poor woman was dead long before they got to her.'

‘It's horrible,' Louise said. He had followed her into the room and they were both standing. She had a cigarette in her hand, and she found an ashtray at the other side of the room, where she could turn her back on him for a moment. He had a way of looking directly at her, watching her face. She had found it attractive once; he had fine dark eyes, full of expression. Now it made her falter. He was an enemy, not to be trusted.

‘I had a surprise,' she said suddenly. ‘Do you remember I had a cousin Roger, father's first cousin—Roger Savage?'

‘I heard him mentioned, but I can't remember meeting him. Why?'

She turned and faced him. ‘His son arrived here this morning. From Berne. He works for the family trust lawyers. He's upstairs. I said he could stay with us for a few days.'

Jean de Bernard took a cigarette from his case and slowly lit it.

‘Of course,' he said. ‘How nice.' He didn't have to look at her. He didn't ask for explanations. He knew with infallible instinct that she was lying.

‘Excuse me,' he said. ‘I'm going upstairs to see Papa.'

At six-thirty a car drew up at the gates of the Château. The lodge was empty, its windows shuttered. There was no gatekeeper and the gates stood open. The car was sleek and highly polished; the driver sprang out and stood at attention by the back door. Inside two people turned towards each other. The man was in his forties, clean-shaven, with close-cropped brown hair and high cheekbones, deep-set eyes.

He slid his arm round the shoulders of a girl, much younger, with dark hair down to her shoulders and a rapt expression on her face. He bent and kissed her, opening her lips; one hand closed over her breast. Outside the car, his driver stood at attention, staring straight ahead.

‘I shall miss you,' the man said. ‘I shall think of you with your family while I'm alone.'

Her face was pale, like a mask, the eyes closed. ‘I have to come,' she whispered. ‘You don't know how I hate it. You don't know how I hate every minute I'm away from you!'

‘One day I shall come up to the house,' he said. He searched her mouth again. ‘Let me drive you now. Why should you walk, carrying that bag …'

‘No,' she murmured, holding on to him. ‘No, Adolph, not yet. Give me time to talk to them. Let me talk to my brother first …'

‘All right.' He drew away and opened the door. ‘I won't force you, my darling. I won't embarrass you. Till Monday.'

Régine de Bernard got out. The driver handed her her weekend case and saluted. The rear window of the car was down. She blew a kiss through it. The man replaced his black cap, the skull insignia of the Death's Head division of the S.S. gleamed above the peak.

‘Till Monday,' Bernard's sister whispered. The Mercedes waited till she had gone through the gates. Then it did a U-turn in the narrow drive and headed back towards Paris.

Régine went upstairs to her own room. Whenever she returned to St. Blaize she cried herself to sleep because she could have been with Adolph. She banged her door shut, sighing deeply, and touched her breast where he had caressed her. They must never know, of course. Her brother and her sister-in-law, whom she hated. They wouldn't understand the fire in the loins that drove her mad, when she was separated from him. She was a de Bernard, a well brought up Catholic of impeccable family, and it wouldn't be conceivable that she copulated with a German old enough to be her father. The only person with whom she felt comfortable was in fact her father. He was frail and wandering, a dying child, who asked no questions and was content to sit and hold her hand. Her brother had become a stranger. The world was full of strangers now, of people who wouldn't understand how she could be the mistress of a Colonel in the S.S. Privately Regine jeered. She knew friends of her aunt who were having affairs with the upper-class officers of the Wehrmacht.

It was only the black uniform that frightened them. It didn't frighten her. She loved it; she loved the inference of force and cruelty, the way he hurt her when they were making love. She wanted to crawl and kiss his feet. She threw the little case on the bed and began to pull out her clothes. There was a noise from the room next door. She stopped, listening. Nobody slept there; it was always empty. Her fool of a brother, whom his wife had turned out of her bed, occupied the room below. Somebody was staying in the old guest room. She stood still; the walls were very thick, they muffled and distorted noise. There was a faint bang, which she thought must be the window; her own made a similar noise because the frame was heavy and it swung on its weight. Régine went outside and paused by the door. She was tense, curious as a cat. She knocked and then opened it.

A man was inside, knotting his tie in front of the dressing table. He turned round and looked at her. She saw a smile which didn't come from his eyes.

‘Hello,' he said. ‘You must be Régine. Come in.' She found herself shaking hands. He had taken the initiative away from her.

‘I'm Roger Savage, Louise's cousin. I'm staying for a few days.'

‘I didn't know anyone was here,' she said. She could feel the colour in her face. ‘I heard the window bang. Please excuse me for bursting in …'

‘That's quite all right.' He smiled down at her. There were deep rings under her eyes and she looked plain and tense. ‘What time is dinner? I'm afraid I've been sleeping.'

‘Seven-thirty. I've only just arrived.'

‘From Paris,' Savage said. ‘Louise told me about you. How is it there?'

‘How should it be?' Hostility flashed at him.

Foe, he reminded himself. Definitely foe. ‘I'm asking you,' he said. ‘I haven't been there since the occupation. I hope it hasn't changed.'

‘I don't think so; perhaps you ought to go and see for yourself.'

‘Perhaps I will,' he said. ‘We Swiss are such dull fellows; it would be good for me. I might even take you out to lunch.'

‘I'm at the Sorbonne,' Régine said. ‘I wouldn't have time.' She made a little movement, awkward and unwilling. Thank you.'

‘I'll see you downstairs,' Savage said. He opened the door for her.

Louise hadn't misjudged her attitude, but he felt her dismissal of the sister-in-law was a mistake. She reminded him of an animal living on its nerves. It was ridiculous, but he had a prescience of danger. He inspected himself in the glass. Hair brushed down, clothes conservative and neat, expression relaxed. The Swiss were dull fellows; he must remember that. He heard voices in the salon and opened the door to find Louise in front of it.

‘Oh,' she said. ‘I was coming to call you.'

Savage took her hand and kissed it; he felt her fingers tremble.

‘I hope I'm not late.'

‘Of course not, come in. We're having a drink.'

She wore a yellow printed dress with a long skirt; the cut was pre-war.

‘My husband Jean. This is Roger.'

He shook hands with the Comte; he formed a quick impression of a good-looking dark eyed man with prematurely greying hair and a firm grip, and then his stomach knotted quickly. A man in grey uniform moved forward.

‘Major Minden, my cousin Monsieur Savage.'

Minden. Heinz Paul Minden, Major in the 23rd Infantry Corps, aged thirty-seven, married with two children, home in Breslau. Savage bowed. Nothing remarkable, pleasant-looking in a clean-cut way, tall, well built. They shook hands. Louise handed him a glass of the dry wine he had drunk before lunch. The Major offered him a cigarette; he could see Jean de Bernard watching him. He felt Régine come in, and forestalled an introduction by announcing that they had already met.

She accepted a drink and retreated into a corner seat.

‘This is my first visit to St. Blaize.' Savage spoke to the major. ‘It's beautiful; it must be pleasant to stay here. Do you work in Paris?'

‘No, my office is at the local headquarters,' Minden said. He didn't like the Swiss. He was surprised and irritated to find another man in the house. His eyes strayed from Savage, who was describing the train ride from Paris in tedious detail, and followed Louise as she moved round the room. She seemed restless; her cousin's visit appeared to have unsettled her. He thought she looked very beautiful in the yellow dress. Regine was as quiet and withdrawn as usual. Minden paid her no attention. He was wholly absorbed by the older woman.

The voice of Savage recalled him. ‘I was stopped on the way here,' he said. ‘It looked like a road block. I must say your troops were very polite.'

‘I'm glad to hear it,' the Major said. ‘There's an alert on for enemy agents in the area. But it's only a formality. I don't think it's a serious possibility.'

‘Roger.' Louise had appeared beside them suddenly; she linked her arm through his and pressed fiercely with her fingers. Savage looked down at her. He gave her arm a friendly squeeze.

‘You don't know how interesting I find all this,' he said. ‘Imagine how quiet it is, living in a neutral country. Enemy agents! That sounds very exciting.'

‘I disagree.' Jean de Bernard spoke directly to him. The last time these people were dropped round here, they involved a local family and two of them were shot. It was a useless, irresponsible act, and it cost French lives. We don't want any more of it. If I found anyone hiding here and trying to cause trouble for the occupation forces, I shouldn't hesitate to give them up!'

There was silence then; Savage felt Louise stiffen beside him. The Major looked embarrassed. ‘And quite right too,' Savage said. ‘You French are sensible, like the Swiss. You prefer peace. Just think, if I hadn't become a citizen when I was younger, I could have been fighting in the American Army!' They were all looking at him. He patted Louise's hand; he could feel the German wince. He'd noticed the wandering look that followed her, the contracting of jaw muscles when she held his arm. The Major didn't like the cousin from Switzerland handling what he wanted to touch so badly himself.

‘Of course,' Minden said, his voice unfriendly. ‘I didn't realise you were American.'

‘Only my father,' Savage explained. ‘My mother was from Lausanne. I've spent all my life in Switzerland. Do you know it?'

‘No,' the Major said. ‘I've never been there.'

‘We used to ski at Verbier before the war,' Jean de Bernard said. ‘My father skied extremely well.'

‘How is he today?' The Major channelled the talk away from Savage and Louise led him to a sofa which was set back by the wall. She sat beside him. He lit her cigarette and saw that her hand trembled.

‘You must be mad,' she said quickly. ‘Talking about enemy agents …'

‘Mad to ignore it,' he said. ‘Why shouldn't I mention it? I've nothing to hide; stop looking frightened or they'll notice something. Smile. And put that cigarette out, your hand's shaking like a leaf.'

‘It's terrifying,' Louise whispered. ‘There's something odd about Jean. I don't think he believes me. How did you meet Régine?'

‘She came into my room; said she heard a noise. I'd watch your step with her. She's sharp as a tack.'

‘She's completely wrapped up in her own life,' Louise said. For a moment she glanced across to where her sister-in-law sat, holding a glass of wine in both hands, not drinking it and watching her brother talking to the Mayor. ‘She's just young, self-centred. I don't take any notice of her.'

‘Well, I shall,' Savage said, ‘and you should. My hunch says she's dangerous.' He leaned against the sofa, one arm stretched out along the back. Louise looked at him and suddenly he smiled. It made him look different.

‘I like your dress,' he said. ‘Try to relax with me, don't look so strained.'

‘I'm sorry,' she said. ‘I'll try my best. I won't let you down. Aren't you scared yourself? Sitting here with that man across the room …'

‘No.' Savage shook his head. ‘He interests me. Put me sitting next to him at dinner. I want to make a good impression.'

‘You ought to avoid him,' Louise protested, ‘keep out of his way. I think you're taking unnecessary risks. I've calmed down now, give me another cigarette. It was just when you mentioned the alert …'

‘Here.' He lit it for her and for a moment their hands touched. His were warm and steady. There was nothing about him to make her feel protective, and yet she said it. ‘Be careful. Please.'

‘Don't worry.' Savage got up, and slid his hand under her elbow. ‘Your manservant has just come in. And don't forget, put me next to Minden.'

Louise sat at the end of the table, with Jean at the head, candles burning between them, lighting the faces of Savage and Minden and Regine.

Savage was talking; he talked to Jean, to Régine, who hardly answered, and most of all to the Major, who was dour and unresponsive. Watching, Louise felt herself relaxing. He was so confident, so bold in his assumption of the role. And so Swiss that she could hardly believe it was acting. She ate little and only sipped the wine, aware that Jean was glancing at her from the other end, with an expression which she couldn't analyse. Did he suspect anything? It was impossible to tell. She had no practice in lying to him, or to anyone; she had been brought up to tell the truth and to despise evasions. Now she had agreed to live a terrifying lie and to deceive people so close to her that every mood and look was known. And if she failed, if Jean suspected that Roger Savage was not her cousin, that he was in any way connected with the airraid warning of the previous night, then the man she had promised to help was already dead. ‘I'd denounce them immediately', that was what Jean had said, and she knew that the words were directed at her. And he'd do it; she had to remember what happened to the Palliers, to reject the hope that he had been incapable of the final infamy.