Stranger at the Gates (9 page)

‘You are a taxi?' Now Savage was speaking like a Swiss. The old man nodded.

‘I am the taxi, Monsieur. The only one. I have a limit of four kilometres.' Savage opened the door and got inside, throwing his suitcase ahead of him.

‘The Château de St. Blaize,' he said.

‘That's outside the four kilometres,' the driver said. ‘Sorry, I can't take you.' The other passengers were approaching the cab. Ten francs came at him from behind, held between the finger and thumb of the man in the rear.

‘Take me there. Five more when we arrive.'

‘What about these people here? How do they manage?'

‘I don't know,' Savage said. ‘Take the money and let's go. I have an appointment.'

‘The engine started and the old car bumped forward; Savage lit a cigarette, the first he had allowed himself since leaving the Palliers' house smouldering from coals raked out of the stove onto the carpet. He checked his passport and papers and sat back, tipping the Homburg a little back on his head. He hated hats.

They passed the first German patrol on the way out of the village. He showed his documents, the taxi driver vouched for his arrival on the train from Paris, and from then on the way to the Château was clear.

3

He rang the old-fashioned iron bell-pull outside the door and waited for what seemed a long time before it was opened to him. Jean Pierre, garbed in a green baize apron, with his sleeves rolled above knotty elbows, showed him into the salon on the ground floor. Savage presented a business card and asked the old butler to give it to the Comtesse. Left alone, he paced quickly round the room, taking stock of the fine eighteenth-century furniture, and the pictures. Ancestral faces, some simpering, some arrogant, looked down at him, and Savage remained unimpressed. He was more interested in a photograph which showed a very pretty dark haired woman posing beside a fountain with two children. He picked it up. She certainly photographed well. He was still holding it when the door opened behind him and he heard a light step cross the floor.

‘Monsieur Savage?'

Louise held out her hand and he kissed it, making a little bow. The room faced south and the sunlight fell directly on her; he had placed himself to be in shadow. It was the right woman, no doubt at all about the large brown eyes and the cast of face which was so palpably American. Even after so many years, she spoke French with a Boston accent. He smiled at her.

‘You must forgive me for descending on you,' he said, ‘without any warning: I would have telephoned, but unfortunately I arrived very late in Paris, and there was some difficulty getting through here this morning.'

‘The lines are terrible,' Louise said. ‘Please sit down; let me offer you something. Would you like to sit in here or in the garden? It's quite warm outside.'

‘The garden would be very nice,' Savage agreed. Less chance of anyone listening in the open air. She seemed relaxed and friendly. He felt she was excited to see a stranger. Life must be dull, he decided. He followed her out into the sunshine.

The butler brought wine; it was pale and dry, with a slight
pétillance
. ‘It's our own,' she explained. ‘It makes a nice apéritif. You will stay to lunch, of course.'

‘You're very kind,' Savage said. ‘You will have had Monsieur Felon's letter, so you know why I'm here.'

‘No,' Louise said. ‘I've heard nothing. Of course, I know your firm. Monsieur Savage, because of my family trust, but I never received any letter.'

‘Oh.' He made a gesture of annoyance. ‘How ridiculous—it must be the censorship. It will probably arrive after I've left. I shall have to explain it myself.'

‘It's about the trust?'

‘Not exactly.' Savage offered her a cigarette. The sun was warm and he watched her close her eyes for a moment, lifting her face to it. She had a fine profile. She opened her eyes and turned to him.

‘What do you mean, not exactly?' Her father had died before the war; with America's entry into the conflict, her affairs had been placed in the hands of the Swiss lawyers whom Savage represented. She knew M. Felon personally.

‘I haven't come about money.'

‘No? Then what is it—is something wrong?'

‘No.' He shook his head. ‘Can I ask you a question, Madame de Bernard? A very personal question.'

‘I suppose so. I won't guarantee to answer it.' Her mother, was inclined to interfere. For a moment Louise wondered whether some rumour of her estrangement from Jean had reached Boston, and the repercussions had found themselves at St. Blaize via Switzerland. She gave Savage a hostile look. ‘What is your question?'

‘What are your feelings towards the Allies?'

Louise didn't answer him. She got up. ‘I'm afraid I never discuss the war.'

He didn't move; he blew a smoke ring at her.

‘You haven't answered the question,' he said. There was nobody near them; trees, lawns, the fountain in the photograph, but no lurking gardener, no passing maid. He spoke in English. ‘Sit down and take it easy. I've got news from home.'

She stared at him. She did as he suggested.

‘You're American!' she whispered. ‘What is this? Who are you …?'

‘I saw your mother before Christmas,' he said. ‘She's fine; remarkable woman. You look like her. There wasn't any letter from Felon. There isn't any trust-busting to be done. I'm here on my own. Now—how do you feel about the Allies?'

London said she was reliable. Their information was gathered through an unlikely source. Father Duval, parish priest of St. Blaize en Yvelines, was a gossip, and priests visiting the area paid a call upon him, which he encouraged because it gave him the opportunity to talk. He was a stubborn man in his mid-fifties, devoted to his parishioners and disdainful of the Germans whom he had fought in the First War. He had given a young curé from Paris a complete picture of the conditions in the area and the attitude of the people of the village. He had mentioned the Comtesse's presence at the Palliers' Requiem, and lamented the collaborationist stand taken by the Comte. Within two hours, the curé had picked up enough information to relay it back to London through a radio operator hiding in Chartres, one of a thin chain of Allied secret communication that stretched across France and was being constantly broken up by German intervention. The operator only worked another two weeks before the detector van caught up with him, and he was killed in a gun battle.

Savage hoped that London and his OSS chiefs had been correct in their assessment. It was one thing to make a gesture from the safety of marriage with a known collaborator. It might be quite different for the Comtesse de Bernard to actively help an Allied agent. Women were fond of adopting heroic poses or just being bloody-minded. Watching her now, he felt more confident. There was nothing exhibitionist about her; she even looked frightened, which was reassuring.

‘I hate the Germans,' she said quietly. ‘I hate them for what they're doing to the world, for what they're doing to the Jews. I hate their arrogance and I hate their beliefs. If they win this war it'll be the end of civilisation. Does that answer your question?'

‘I guess so,' Savage said. ‘I need to stay here for a few days. I need to operate from here. I've got a perfect cover story and everything will check. You've nothing to fear from that angle.'

‘Then you're not with Felon and Brassier …' Louise said.

‘I was,' Savage answered. ‘For about three years before the war. Now I'm working for a bigger firm. Will you help me?'

He saw emotions changing on her face; she was a woman who showed her feelings. Surprise, fear, hesitancy. And then resolution. It was in her eyes as she looked at him. London had been right about her. For some reason, apart from his own skin. Savage was glad.

‘I'll help you. I'll do anything I can.'

‘Thanks.' He leaned over and refilled their glasses; when he gave one to her he felt how cold her fingers were. But the resolution was still there.

He raised his glass to her. ‘Thanks,' he said again. ‘I can't say you won't regret it, because if anything goes wrong you may. How long can you keep me here?'

‘As long as you like,' Louise said. She was already seeing Jean in her mind's eye, hearing his questions … Why should a Swiss lawyer stay with them—couldn't he finish his business in a day—food was short …

As if Savage knew her thoughts he said, ‘I'm your cousin. I have all the family data. Your mother was a great help. I'm the son of your father's first cousin, Roger Savage. He married a Swiss girl, Marie Thérèse Fielharben, daughter of a rich glass manufacturer. The family weren't exactly pleased, and after I was born the couple divorced. I was brought up in Berne and I became naturalised before the war.'

‘That's right,' Louise said. ‘There was a Roger Savage … Did my mother know what this was for?'

‘She didn't know you were going to be involved,' he said. ‘She was asked for details for a cover story and she gave it. She'd no idea we'd ever meet up.'

‘What have you come for?' Louise asked him. ‘What are you going to do?'

‘Sorry.' Savage shook his head. ‘No questions; no answers. I'm your cousin from Switzerland and you've asked me to stay a while. Just act naturally.'

He smiled constantly, but it was without warmth; there was an alertness about him even in repose. She started to exclaim out loud and then stopped, suddenly. The plane circling overhead, the German alert. That must have been him …

‘Oh my God!' she said. ‘I forgot—you can't stay here! We've a German officer billeted on us.'

‘I know,' Savage said. ‘Major Minden. That's okay.'

‘How do you know?' Louise said. ‘How could you know about him …?'

‘No questions,' Savage reminded her. ‘How about your husband?'

‘He's for Vichy,' she said bitterly. ‘He went over to the Germans in 1940. He couldn't be trusted with anything.'

‘He'll accept the story; so long as you act naturally,' he repeated. ‘Does he come home for lunch?'

‘He may not today,' she said. ‘He's in the village with the Mayor. There was a fire last night and a poor woman was burned to death. Jean takes that sort of thing very seriously. He does what he can for the people.'

‘I'm glad to hear it.' Savage sounded unimpressed. ‘Tell me about the Major.'

‘There's nothing to tell.' Louise dismissed him; the subject embarrassed her. ‘He's at the staff HQ at Château Diane. He doesn't obtrude and that's all I can say for him.'

Not quite all; Savage noticed how that pretty mouth had tightened, the look of wariness in her eyes. Major Heinz Minden. She needn't have warned him; he knew more about the Major than she did. The old manservant appeared beside them, wearing a faded alpaca jacket, and formally announced lunch.

They talked about the weather, about Switzerland and the Marshall Trust Fund, Savage giving a good performance for the benefit of Jean-Pierre who shuffled in and out of the dining room. He noticed that Louise de Bernard was uncomfortable; she said as little as possible, leaving the major role in the deception to him. He didn't falter in it. Years ago he had been an enthusiastic amateur actor at college; his histrionic talent had taken him to the bar where a peculiarly incisive mind promised a brilliant future in the law if he ever got the chance to go back to his practice. It wasn't a chance he would have bet good money on. He didn't expect to get out alive and he didn't care. He had told as much to his own General who had looked worried and responsible, as if the life of one man were important in their kind of war. Savage enjoyed his wine. He believed in taking what was on offer, like the warm sunshine during his trek across the fields that morning. What had happened hadn't soured him for the good things, for food and drink and women and the pleasure he derived from an ironic joke. Just because you expected to die you didn't have to reject life prematurely.

And for him it would be easy; he carried death in his cuff link like a talisman. But only when he had finished what he had come to do. He hadn't pretended it was patriotism. He had told his worried General exactly why he had volunteered and what made him such a suitable choice to go to St. Blaize. The General had been distressed. Not so much by the reason. Savage suspected; stories like this were not uncommon. But by the hate he had showed the General when he talked about his mission. Personal, burning, obsessional hatred. The same feeling had brought him into the special OSS unit, and made him the most promising trainee of his group. He was rougher, quicker, more ruthless than any of them. He learned to kill with his hands, to silence with a single blow. To use many types of weapons, to handle explosives. His French and German were fluent; like many with a natural acting talent he was also a good linguist, with an ear for dialect. He could pass for a Swiss in Switzerland, after his three years spent working there. They took their coffee in the salon, because it had turned colder outside and clouded over. He glanced at the grey skies through the window. The weather must break soon. Clouds and rain, holding back that fleet of barges, keeping the armies on the leash … He looked across at Louise de Bernard and smiled. She had been watching him silently for some minutes.

‘You're doing it again,' he said.

‘Doing what?'

‘Asking questions. I can see it on your face. “Was he dropped last night when the plane came over—what's he going to do here …” Stop it. Stop thinking about me as anything but your cousin from Switzerland. Otherwise you'll never make it stick.'

‘I'm sorry,' Louise said, ‘but it's not easy.'

‘Nothing like this is. Tell me about Major Minden.'

She shrugged. ‘There's not much to tell. He's been billeted here for six months. He gets on well with Jean, my husband. I see as little of him as I can.'