Frenchman, he had a nose like the beak of a parrot. In fact, his colleagues often referred to him as The Parrot behind his back.
Lara started the long walk down the steep road leading back to the city, watching her step on the uneven paving blocks. The last thing she needed now was a sprained ankle. In the blazing heat of the afternoon there was no one she could see as she continued the descent. Marseilles gradually came up to meet her, a solid mass of shabby, red-tiled rooftops.
She passed an old tank complete with a long gun parked where the street widened. Some memorial to the American landing in the south of France in 1944. She passed it without any interest in reading the plaque. The Parrot, making no sound in rubber-soled shoes, followed a hundred metres behind.
Arriving at the harbour at long last, she walked past the landing-stages where a forest of masts rose, climbed the hill to the Sofitel, a concrete block, collected her room key. On the way to the bank of lifts she paused to look at a huge cactus sprouting from a giant pot.
Behind her, The Parrot whipped out his smaller Voigtlander, aimed it, took three shots of the girl. In case she had seen him out of the corner of her eye, he then swivelled the camera and took three more shots of other pots. When he looked again she had vanished inside an elevator. He walked quickly to the bank, checked the lights. She had got off at the second floor. He returned to the reception counter and spoke to the girl behind the counter.
'The manager. It's urgent…'
'Can I help? He's off duty, taking a siesta.'
'I said it was urgent. Wake him up. Do it. Now!'
She stared resentfully at the small man who wore a pair of dark-tinted glasses. Something about the way he stared back bothered her. She picked up the phone, spoke a few words Valmy couldn't catch, then replaced the receiver.
'He will be here in a minute.'
A portly man, wearing a linen suit, brushing back his hair with his hand, appeared from behind a door. The girl gestured at Valmy.
'What is it?' the manager asked.
'DST.' The Parrot showed him a folder. Direction de la Surveillance du Territoire. Counter-Espionage. 'You have a girl staying here. Early twenties. Auburn hair. With a room on the second floor. I need to see a copy of her registration slip.'
That is Miss Lara Seagrave. An English girl,' the receptionist said.
'Leave this to me,' the manager snapped. 'Go and get a cup of coffee. Come back in five minutes…'
He had been sorting through a card index box. He brought out a printed form and handed it to The Parrot, who noted the details in his book. He handed back the form, staring hard at the manager.
'I have never been here. Warn your girl. If she opens her mouth she'll be charged with an offence against state security.'
The Parrot walked back down the hill and round the harbour to the infamous Canebiere, the street where a German woman had been robbed of thirty thousand francs crossing it the day before on her way from a bank to Cook's. At five in the afternoon the city was like an oven.
The Parrot had taken up station at Noire Dame de la Garde out of pure chance. Rumours were rife about a plot to hijack a ship. And Miss Lara Seagrave had taken an awful lot of pictures of the harbour from the best vantage point in Marseilles. She'd also studied it carefully through her binoculars.
He mused over the idea until he reached his hotel. It would give him something to report to the rue des Saussaies in Paris. They liked reports – it showed their superiors the agents in the field were active. Then it would be filed away. Forever.
After a meal which took ages to serve, Valmy went up to bed. The heat persisted throughout the night. He had trouble sleeping, rolling from side to side, covered in sweat. That girl came back into his mind. Why?
After breakfast he phoned the manager at the Sofitel. It was the same man. Still feeling it could all be a waste of time, he made his request.
'If Lara Seagrave checks out, I'd like to know – here is my phone number…'
'But she is leaving soon, sir. She has called down for the bill to be made up.'
Thank you…'
The Parrot slammed down the phone, grabbed his bag which he kept packed, went down to the lobby, paid his own bill, rushed out of the hotel and jumped into his hired Deux-Chevaux. It was too early yet for heavy traffic and ten minutes later he parked in the drive to the Sofitel. He was just in time. Within minutes he saw her, carrying a suitcase, climbing into a cab. He followed.
She alighted at the Gare St Charles. He walked after her to the ticket counter, queued behind her. He had changed into a lightweight shabby blue suit and no longer wore his tinted glasses. She bought a one-way ticket to Paris and headed for the platform.
Valmy was careful. The Paris express was not due for another fifteen minutes. He bought a ticket for the first place that came into his head. Aix-en-Provence. Then he strolled on to the platform, standing close to a woman with a child.
Lara slipped the ticket into her purse and casually glanced round, checking the other passengers. A family of three, one man and woman with a child, several men carrying brief-cases, four women on their own. No one she had seen before.
The express arrived, people boarded the train. Lara waited, checking her watch. She glanced round again. Valmy was out of sight, standing by the wall of a waiting room, watching her through the window. Just before the express left, he saw Lara leap aboard, slamming the door behind her. Curious.
He was walking back to his car when he saw the phone box and took his decision. He called rue des Saussaies, identified himself, then the stupid operator went off the line. A new and familiar voice answered. Rene Lasalle, Chief of the DST.
'Who is it?'
'Leon Valmy… I didn't ask for you… the girl…'
'Now you've got me, what is it?'
Valmy explained, keeping his story short. Lasalle couldn't stand wafflers. Terse and decisive, the chief believed words were to communicate information. He listened, thinking there wasn't much to all this.
'What made you phone?' he asked eventually.
'A hunch. Nothing more, Chief,' Valmy said apologetically, wishing now he hadn't made the call.
Hunch? Lasalle was instantly alert. It was a hunch of The Parrot's which had elevated him to his present position. He reached for a railway timetable, telling Valmy to hang on, then checked the time by the wall-clock.
'That express arrives in Paris at 1650 hours. Assuming she stays aboard, doesn't get off en route…'
'She did book through to Paris…'
'We'll take a chance. Get to Marignane Airport fast, catch a flight to Paris. You'll beat her to it. We'll have a car waiting at the airport, take you to the Gare de Lyon -you'll be here in time to identify her.'
'I'd better rush…'
'Do that.'
11
Klein was also up early. He had stayed overnight at the Hotel Roi Rene in Aix-en-Provence. Never linger at the same place for more than twenty-four hours. That defeated the system of hotel registration the French employed -with the police calling for their copies of the registration form during the night.
He drove off at six for his appointment in Cassis, the small resort east of Marseilles. He arrived at the iron grille gates of the luxurious villa overlooking the sea at 7.30 a.m. A guard checked his passport, then operated the mechanism which opened the gates. Who would dream that the head of the local Union Corse lived in a place like this?
Emilio Perugini was waiting for him in a lounging chair by the side of the obligatory status symbol, a swimming pool. A large Alsatian swam in the water, heading for a rubber ball the small fat man in the chair had
