Flick guided Paul to the street parallel with Gilberte’s. Flick remembered coming here with her wounded husband exactly seven days ago. She directed Paul to park near the end of the alley. “Wait here,” Flick said. “I’ll check the place.”
Jelly said, “Be quick, for God’s sake.”
“Quick as I can.” Flick got out and ran down the alley, past the back of the factory to the door in the wall. She crossed the garden quickly and slipped through the back entrance into the building. The hallway was empty and the place was quiet. She went softly up the stairs to the attic floor.
She stopped outside Gilberte’s apartment. What she saw filled her with dismay. The door stood open. It had been broken in and was leaning drunkenly from one hinge. She listened but heard nothing, and something told her the break-in had happened days ago. Cautiously, she stepped inside.
There had been a perfunctory search. In the little living room, the cushions on the seats were disarranged, and in the kitchen corner the cupboard doors stood open. Flick looked into the bedroom and saw a similar scene. The drawers had been pulled out of the chest, the wardrobe was open, and someone had stood on the bed with dirty boots.
She went to the window and looked down into the street. Parked opposite the building was a black Citroen Traction Avant with two men sitting in the front.
This was all bad news, Flick thought despairingly. Someone had talked, and Dieter Franck had made the most of it. He had painstakingly followed a trail that had led him first to Mademoiselle Lemas, then to Brian Standish, and finally to Gilberte. And Michel? Was he in custody? It seemed all too probable.
She thought about Dieter Franck. She had felt a shiver of fear the first time she had looked at the short MI6 biography of him on the back of his file photo. She had not been scared enough, she now knew. He was clever and persistent. He had almost caught her at La Chatelle, he had scattered posters of her face all over Paris, he had captured and interrogated her comrades one after another.
She had set eyes on him just twice, both times for a few moments only. She brought his face to mind. There was intelligence and energy in his look, she thought, plus a determination that could easily become ruthlessness. She was quite sure that he was still on her trail. She resolved to be ever more vigilant.
She looked at the sky. She had about three hours until dark.
She hurried down the stairs and out through the garden back to the Simca Cinq parked in the next street. “No good,” she said as she squeezed into the car. “The place has been searched and the Gestapo are watching the front.”
“Hell,” Paul said. “Where do we go now?”
“I know of one more place to try,” said Flick. “Drive into town.”
She wondered how long they could continue to use the Simca Cinq, as the tiny 500cc engine struggled to power the overloaded car. Assuming the bodies at the house in the rue du Bois had been discovered within an hour, how long would it be before police and Gestapo men in Reims were alerted to look out for Mademoiselle Lemas’s car? Dieter had no way of contacting men who were already out on the streets, but at the next change of shift they would all be briefed. And Flick did not know when the night crews came on duty. She concluded that she had almost no time left. “Drive to the station,” she said. “We’ll dump the car there.”
“Good idea,” Paul said. “Maybe they’ll think we’ve left town.”
Flick scanned the streets for military Mercedes cars or black Gestapo Citroens. She held her breath as they passed a pair of gendarmes patrolling. But they reached the center of the city without incident. Paul parked near the railway station, and they all got out and hurried away from the incriminating vehicle.
“I’ll have to do this alone,” Flick said. “The rest of you had better go to the cathedral and wait for me there.”
“All my sins have been forgiven several times over, I’ve spent so much time in church today,” Paul said.
“You can pray for a place to spend the night,” Flick told him, and she hurried away.
She returned to the street where Michel lived. A hundred meters from his house was the bar Chez Regis. Flick went in. The proprietor, Alexandre Regis, sat behind the counter smoking. He gave her a nod of recognition but said nothing.
She went through the door marked Toilettes. She walked along a short passage, then opened what looked like a cupboard door. It led to a steep staircase going up. At the top of the stairs was a heavy door with a peephole. Flick banged on it and stood where her face could be seen through the judas. A moment later the door was opened by M‚m‚ Regis, the mother of the proprietor.
Flick entered a large room whose windows were blacked out. It was crudely decorated with matting on the floor, brown-painted walls, and several naked bulbs hanging from the ceiling. At one end of the room was a roulette wheel. Around a large circular table a group of men were playing cards. There was a bar in one corner. This was an illegal gambling club.
Michel liked to play poker for high stakes, and he enjoyed louche company, so he occasionally came here for an evening. Flick never played, but she sometimes sat and watched the game for an hour. Michel said she brought him luck. It was a good place to hide from the Gestapo, and Flick had been hoping she might find him here, but as she looked from face to face around the room she was disappointed.
“Thank you, M‚m‚,” she said to Alexandre’s mother.
“It’s good to see you. How are you?”
“Fine, have you seen my husband?”
“Ah, the charming Michel. Not tonight, I regret.” The people here did not know Michel was in the Resistance.
Flick went to the bar and sat on a stool, smiling at the barmaid, a middle-aged woman with bright red lipstick. She was Yvette Regis, the wife of Alexandre. “Have you any scotch?”
“Of course,” said Yvette. “For those who can afford it.” She produced a bottle of Dewar’s White Label and poured a measure.
Flick said, “I’m looking for Michel.”
“I haven’t seen him for a week or so,” Yvette said.
“Damn.” Flick sipped her drink. “I’ll wait awhile, in case he shows up.”
CHAPTER 44
DIETER WAS DESPERATE. Flick had proved too clever. She had evaded his trap. She was somewhere in the city of Reims, but he had no way of finding her.
He could no longer have members of the Reims Resistance followed, in the hope that she would contact one of them, for they were all now in custody. Dieter had Michel’s house and Gilberte’s flat under surveillance, but he felt sure that Flick was too wily to let herself be seen by the average Gestapo flatfoot. There were posters of her all over town, but she must have changed her appearance by now, dyed her hair or something, for no one had reported seeing her. She had outwitted him at every stop.
He needed a stroke of genius.
And he had come up with one-he thought.
He sat on the seat of a bicycle at the roadside. He was in the center of town, just outside the theater. He wore a beret, goggles, and a rough cotton sweater, and his trousers were tucked into his socks. He was unrecognizable. No one would suspect him. The Gestapo never went by bicycle.
He stared west along the street, narrowing his eyes to look into the setting sun. He was waiting for a black Citroen. He checked his watch: any minute now.
On the other side of the road, Hans was at the wheel of a wheezy old Peugeot, which had almost come to the end of its useful life. The engine was running: Dieter did not want to take the risk that it might not start when it was needed. Hans was also disguised, in sunglasses and a cap, and wore a shabby suit and down-at-the-heel shoes, like a French citizen. He had never done anything like this before, but he had accepted his orders with unflappable stoicism.
Dieter, too, had never done this before. He had no idea whether it would work. All kinds of things could go wrong and anything could happen.
