They all laughed except Neil, and Lieutenant Morin clapped him on the back: ‘I can see you are one of us, Dutchman!’
Van Loon said, ‘I would like very much to be one of you, with all these girls around!’
Anne-Marie touched Neil’s elbow and whispered, ‘It is two o’clock. You have to telephone the fat man.’
Neil felt a sinking in his stomach; he had hoped he was free of this. What could he say to Pol? That he’d met Le Hir behind the barricades and was lunching at Le Berry with one of the Secret Army student leaders?
Anne-Marie said, ‘The telephones are through past the toilets. They’ll give you a jeton at the cash desk.’
Inside the padded booth he pulled the door firmly shut and dialled the number Pol had given him. He wondered if there were an extension in the restaurant which could be listened in to. Perhaps that was why she had asked him to lunch in the first place. The line the other end did not give the normal ringing tone; there were three pips and a woman’s voice repeated the number he had dialled. He said, ‘Monsieur Pol, please.’ There was a click, silence, then Pol’s voice came on — warily, Neil thought, ‘Who is it?’
‘Ingleby.’
‘Ah Monsieur Ingleby, comment ça va?’ His voice cooed and chuckled deafeningly down the line, he was in his expansive mood. Neil wondered how many bottles of Johnny Walker had already been brought into the heavily guarded High Command headquarters.
‘Are you enjoying your stay here?’ Pol went on, with a trace of irony: the line was probably being tapped his end by the Sûreté.
‘I’m fine,’ said Neil, feeling the sweat itching down his nose in the heat of the booth.
‘Bien! Now where are you speaking from?’
Neil hesitated a second: ‘A tobacconist’s — near the hotel.’
‘Very well, now listen carefully. This is very important.’
Neil wedged his toes and buttocks between the narrow walls; the receiver was growing wet under his hand. Pol spoke with slow emphasis: ‘Tomorrow morning at ten o’clock you will walk out of your hotel and turn right into the rue Victor Hugo. At the end of it is a cinema called le Roxy — at the moment it is showing “Spartacus” with your English actor Laurence Olivier. Next to this cinema, down a small turning, is a place called “La Cintra Café”. It is very small and is usually empty at that time. You will go in and order a drink. At a quarter past ten a man will come in. He will be wearing a white shirt with no tie, and will carry a light blue linen jacket over his left arm. He will come up to your table and address you by name, but you will have no time to buy him a drink. Instead you will leave together and drive away in his car. Is that clear?’
Neil changed the dripping receiver from one hand to the other. He would have been amused had he had any sense of humour left. Pol had now descended to traditional amateur dramatics: secret assignations in cafés, men with no ties, coats over their left arm. Even the stage directions were absurdly gauche: ‘He will come up to you, but you will have no time to buy him a drink!’ Surely he should buy the man a drink! It was supposed to be a casual meeting. He was surprised that Pol had not included a password for good measure — something like ‘Il pleure dans mon coeur, comme il pleut sur la ville’ — with perhaps the reply … ‘Spartacus!’ He wondered again, with a sense of dull resignation, whether the line was being tapped at his end. St. Leger and Hudson had been right of course, he was now hopelessly involved.
He said wearily to Pol, ‘Where will I be taken?’
‘I would prefer that you find out tomorrow. It is a little delicate — from my point of view.’ There was a pause. ‘Just in case you decide not to turn up.’
Neil nodded at the receiver. So Pol was playing his own little game and was giving nothing away. If I had any sense, he thought, I should try to get out with the ‘Serafina’ this afternoon.
Pol said, ‘Entendu? Au revoir, Monsieur Ingleby!’ and rang off, and Neil went back to the brandy and coffee that Anne-Marie had ordered while he was out. The Secret Army was paying.
She smiled up at him and said, ‘Well, what did he say?’ There was nothing in any of the faces round the table to suggest that they knew what Pol had said. Rebot and Van Loon had lit up cigars and were both talking to Annette who was shaking her head and laughing; and Lieutenant Morin had his sunburnt jowls sunk in the neck of Pip the sulky starlet. They did not look a menacing gang.
Neil clasped his fingers round the tulip glass of brandy and said, not looking at Anne-Marie, ‘He didn’t tell me anything at all. He said he was too busy. I have to call him again tomorrow.’
He turned and looked at her. There were narrow streaks of bronze in her hair and her lips looked lighter than her face, drawn in a long curved line that did not smile.
She lifted her brandy and nodded. She spoke
