The Lavender Garden (14 page)

“Yes. And if I see no Gestapo outside?”

“Then go up to the third floor, where you’ll find the apartment. Knock twice, then three times, and the door should be answered. Tell them your courier hasn’t arrived to collect you and that Stefan has sent you.”

“Right.” Connie committed the address to memory as the piece of paper was taken from her hand and lit with a match by Stefan. “And if no one is there, where should I go next?”

“There’s someone at apartment seventeen twenty-four hours a day. If there’s no answer, you’ll know the Scientist network is discovered and all have fled to lie low. Therefore, it would be too dangerous to try to make contact with any of its members.” Stefan sighed, taking a deep drag of his cigarette. “As a last resort, I must send you to a friend of mine. He’s not directly part of a circuit, or the SOE, but his loyalty to our cause is beyond reproach. I know he will help you. So, you’ll go to this address”—Stefan pulled another small piece of paper from his pocket and handed it to her—“and ask for Hero.”

Connie read the new address with surprise. “It’s on the Rue de Varenne. My family used to have friends there.”

“Then your family must have moved in high circles. As you know, it’s one of the most prosperous areas of Paris,” said Stefan, raising an eyebrow.

“And—in case Hero isn’t there . . . ? Will I give up and take a train back here?”

“Madame”—Stefan ground the cigarette out aggressively on the forest floor—“at that point, you must use your wits. You will check into a
pension
close by and simply watch and wait for Hero to return. Now, it’s time for us to go. And remember, you must not be on the streets of Paris after curfew. That’s the most dangerous time of all.”

He went back inside the hut with the coffee mugs and Connie studied the ancient bicycles they would ride to the station.

“Who’s your friend Hero?” asked Connie as she climbed aboard, her suitcase wedged precariously between basket and handlebars.

“The rules here are to ask no questions. But he’ll be the one who knows everything that has happened and will be able to put you in touch with a safe subbranch of Scientist. Then you, of course, will be responsible for finding a way to contact London and report back on the situation in Paris as soon as possible. That is if there’s a single wireless operator still free in the city,” Stefan added grimly.

The bicycle journey to the station was thankfully uneventful. The town looked much the same as Connie had seen in this area of prewar France, apart from the swastika flag hanging over the town hall.

Stefan purchased Connie’s ticket and handed it to her. She noticed the way his eyes darted constantly around the platform.

“I must leave you here. Good-bye, madame,” he said, kissing her warmly on both cheeks as if she were a dear relative. “Keep in touch.” He lit a further cigarette and ambled off casually toward his bicycle, leaving Connie to wait alone for the train.

It arrived on the dot at eleven o’clock; Buckmaster had once joked that the only advantage of the German Occupation was the sudden promptness of the French transportation system. Connie climbed aboard, stowing her suitcase on the rack above her. As the train left the station, she looked about the carriage and saw the usual melting pot of humanity. Connie’s empty stomach growled and she closed her eyes, hoping the soothing familiarity of the train’s motion would help calm her frayed nerves. But at every station her eyes flickered open to survey any new arrivals in her carriage.

She changed trains at Le Mans and was able to buy a stale pastry from the kiosk on the platform. Sitting down on a bench to wait for her connection, Connie had her first glimpse of a German officer, standing along the platform chatting to the stationmaster.

Finally, at teatime, her train pulled in to Montparnasse station in Paris. Connie joined the rest of the passengers as they alighted and walked along the platform, bracing herself to pass through her first Milice security checkpoint. She saw a number of her fellow passengers being stopped and their cases pulled up on tables to be opened. Connie’s heart was in her mouth as she walked through, but none of the French policemen gave her a second glance.

Feeling faint with exhilaration that she had passed through uneventfully, Connie looked around the concourse for the
tabac
kiosk where she was to rendezvous with her courier. The station was crowded with workers returning home, but finally she saw the kiosk in a corner and walked toward it. Doing as requested, she bought a packet of Gauloises. Collecting the change, she dropped the packet onto the floor.

“Ah, mince alors!”
she muttered as she picked the box up and pulled out a cigarette. She lit it as casually as possible with the matches Stefan had given her, at the same time glancing around to see if anyone was emerging from the crowd and walking toward her.

Connie smoked the whole cigarette, but no one appeared at her side. Stubbing it out underfoot, she looked at her watch and sighed, as if someone she were expecting to meet was late. Ten minutes later,
she pulled out another cigarette, using the same box of matches. She smoked that one to the stub too.

After her third cigarette, Connie knew that no one would be coming.

“On to Plan B,” she muttered to herself, and left the station to find herself for the first time on the streets of Occupied Paris. The walk to the Rue de Rennes was short, and being in a city she knew and loved so well, the motion calmed her. On this warm summer evening, the streets crowded with Parisians going about their normal business, it was almost possible to imagine nothing had changed.

Dusk was falling as Connie reached the Rue de Rennes. Locating the building number that she needed, she walked past it on the other side of the street, eyes surreptitiously peeled for danger. Having reached the end of the road, she crossed over and walked back along the other side, feeling horribly conspicuous with her suitcase.

Finally, arriving in front of the entrance to the apartment block, she strode purposefully toward the grand front door and turned the handle confidently. It opened easily and she crossed the marble hall and climbed the stairs, the sound of her feet echoing up the lofty staircase. Pausing on the third floor, she found number seventeen just to her right and, taking a deep breath, knocked on it twice, then three times, as instructed.

Nobody answered. Unsure whether to wait or to knock again, her heart pounding in her ears as her blood pressure rose, Connie decided against it. She had been told to try only once, and now she must leave as quickly as possible. It was obvious that Stefan’s fears for the network were real. Turning on her heel, she was about to descend the stairs when the door of the apartment next to number seventeen opened slightly.

“Madame!” a voice hissed. “Your friends are all gone. The Gestapo came here for them yesterday. They are sure to be watching the building now. Do not leave by the front entrance. There’s a door at the back, which opens into a small courtyard. And a gate, which leads to a path used for the garbagemen to remove the trash, which brings you out onto a different street. Go now, quickly, madame!”

The door shut as fast as it had opened and Connie, finally remembering her training, removed her shoes to stop the noise on the stairs and flew down them as fast as she could. Finding the door the woman
had suggested at the back of the hall and praying it wasn’t a trap, she opened it and saw that it led to a small courtyard. Replacing her shoes, she opened the gate, followed the narrow path, and found herself out on a neighboring street. Turning in the opposite direction from the Rue de Rennes, Connie forced herself to walk slowly and casually away from her first encounter with real danger.

Eventually, faint from hunger and adrenaline, and a good kilometer away by now from apartment seventeen, Connie spotted a café with customers spilling out onto the pavement tables. Concerned her legs would take her no farther unless she sat down, she took an empty table and stowed her suitcase beneath it. Studying the limited but welcome menu, Connie ordered a
croque-monsieur
. As she devoured the food hungrily, she breathed deeply to allow her brain to clear.

In this city of millions, she had never felt more alone. And even though she knew many people in Paris from her days at the Sorbonne and had family members too on her mother’s side, any contact was strictly forbidden.

That familiarity and assistance were close at hand, yet so out of reach, made her current situation more poignant. It seemed that Stefan had been right and her network had fled for cover as the Gestapo began their round of arrests. Connie drained her coffee, knowing all she could do was to go to his suggested place of last resort. She paid the bill, picked up her suitcase, and walked off along the street.

Jumping out of her skin every time she heard the rumble of a Nazi truck approaching, Connie walked north and finally arrived on the Rue de Varenne—a wide, tree-filled boulevard lined with gracious, elegant houses. Many of them were dark and silent, but as she looked from a distance at the address she’d been given, she saw the house was most definitely occupied. Lights shone from all the windows, and she could even see shadowy figures moving about in one of the rooms at the front.

Taking a deep breath, Connie crossed the road, climbed up the steps to the front door, and pressed the bell.

A few seconds later, an elderly maid opened the door. Looking Connie up and down, she gave an arrogant “Yes?”

“I’m here to see Hero,” Connie whispered. “I’ve just arrived in Paris. Please tell him Stefan sends his regards.”

The maid’s attitude toward her changed immediately. Alarm registered on her lined face. “Please, madame, step inside quietly and I will go and find him,” she said, ushering Connie in.

“He’s here?” Connie’s relief was palpable.

“Yes, but . . .” The maid looked uncertain. “One moment, madame.”

While the maid disappeared through one of the doors along the corridor, Connie admired the fine antique furniture and elegantly turned staircase, which formed the centerpiece to the hall. The occupants of this house were from a world of wealth she knew well and in which she felt comfortable.

A few seconds later, a tall, dark-haired man whom, with his fine, chiseled bone structure, could be taken for nothing but French, emerged from the room in full dinner dress.

He strode toward her and held out his arms. “Good evening, my dear!” he cried, enveloping a surprised Connie in his arms. “I wasn’t expecting you.” He whispered into her ear as he hugged her to him, “We’re entertaining and they may have seen you climbing the front steps.” Out loud, he said, “How was your journey?”

“It was long,” she replied, startled.

“Are you French?” he whispered, still holding her tightly in an embrace and speaking directly into her ear.

“Yes, my family are from Saint-Raphaël,” she whispered quickly.

“What’s your name?”

“Constance Chapelle. My aunt is the Baroness du Montaine.”

“I know of the family.” Sudden relief appeared in the man’s eyes. “Then you’re my second cousin, come to visit. Go upstairs with Sarah. We’ll talk later.” Releasing her, he spoke normally. “Journeys from the south are so tiresome these days, especially with all the security checks. We will see you downstairs when you’re refreshed, my dearest Constance.”

The expression in his eyes gave Connie no alternative. He turned back to the drawing room and then pushed the door open to enter the room.

As he did so, Connie saw a number of Germans in uniform standing behind it.

H
aving been shown by Sarah, the maid, upstairs to a sumptuous bedroom, then left alone in it while Sarah drew her a bath, a shocked Connie sat breathlessly in an armchair, trying to make sense of what she had just seen downstairs. She’d imagined many scenarios and had even been placed in them during her training course. But never once had she countenanced the thought of spending her first night in Occupied Paris socializing with the enemy.

Sarah led her along the corridor to the bathroom, and she briefly luxuriated in the hot water after two days of being unable to wash. She allowed herself a fleeting smile at the irony of the comfortable physical circumstances she had found herself in as she stepped out of the bath reluctantly and hurried back along the corridor to her allocated bedroom.

Sarah was sitting on the chaise longue at the bottom of the bed. She gestured to the seat next to her. “Please, sit down, Constance.”

Connie did so.

“Édouard, whom you met downstairs, has requested that we speak before you join him for dinner. We don’t have long, so please concentrate on what I will tell you. Firstly, my name is Sarah Bonnay, and I have worked for the de la Martinières family for many years. Édouard explained to me that his friend Stefan had sent you and has asked me to tell you what must happen now.”

“Thank you,” Connie said nervously in reply.

“I can hear the fear in your voice, Constance, and I understand it. But please believe that you’re lucky to have fallen into a safe pair of hands at this moment in Paris. However, your unexpected arrival puts us all in danger. No one could have known that on this night the household would be . . . entertaining. So Édouard has said we must do all we can to salvage the situation. Constance, on your first night in Paris you must give the performance of your life. Édouard has
suggested you are his cousin, up from the south to visit. He said you have family connections there?”

“Yes, my aunt, the Baroness du Montaine, has a château in Saint-Raphaël.”

“As he has in Gassin, nearby. So it’s perfectly possible that the Montaines and the de la Martinières are related. Your story at dinner is that you have arrived in Paris to see your dear cousins and bring them news of the sad death of your mutual uncle, Albért.”

“I see.”

“Constance, let Édouard do the talking. Say as little as possible if you are questioned downstairs. If you are yourself, it should be easy for you.”

“I will do my best.”

Sarah appraised her. “I believe that you’re of similar size to the late Emilie de la Martinières, Édouard’s mother. You should know she died four years ago, just before the war. Perhaps she was the lucky one. . . .” Sarah sighed. “So, I will bring you one of her gowns. If you would like, I can assist you with your hair. The more beautiful, charming, and ignorant you seem, the less danger there will be for all of us. Do you understand, Constance?”