Cross of Fire (10 page)

Chapter Six

Seen on a street plan Bordeaux is a city going nowhere. Driving round the city Newman had the same impression. Moving along a main street leading from the Gare St Jean
towards his hotel, the Pullman, small narrow streets led off on both sides, radiating like the sails of a windmill.

The ancient city comprised old blocks, five or six storeys high, built of grey stone. The walls were stained with the grime of ages, hadn't been cleaned for years. Shutters hung at drunken angles. Nowhere was there any sign of paint being used for a decade. Some were uninhabited ruins, stark walls which looked like the relics of bombing, but he suspected they were simply relics of neglect.

It was like driving through a monstrous prison as he
jammed on the brakes once again. Traffic everywhere, filling
the streets, parked nose to tail on the sidewalks. Most bore
signs of collisions - dented chassis, battered doors. The
leaden sky added to the atmosphere of dreariness.

Newman had a room at the Pullman, one of the better
hotels. But he had also taken a room at a small dump of a lodging house where he'd been able to register in a false
name.
All the old biddy who ran the place wanted was
money in advance. He had bought a shabby suitcase from a sleazy second-hand shop, had filled it with a selection of clothes taken from his suitcase at the Pullman, carried to his car in one of the ubiquitous plastic bags.

It was a precaution - taking a room at the lodging house.

The murder of Francis Carey had made him take certain
precautions. Now he was driving to a rendezvous with Isabelle Thomas, Carey's girlfriend. He had phoned her at the address provided by Tweed, they had agreed to meet at a bar named by Isabelle, the Bar Rococo, at six in the evening. She had told him how she would be dressed. He turned down the street she had named, saw a car leaving a 'slot' on the sidewalk, drove in fast. A woman with a fur round her neck behind the wheel of a Renault leaned out of her window.

'That was my slot, you bastard. Get out of the way.'

Newman gave her a broad smile. 'First come, first
served,' he rejoined.

He locked his car and waited to make sure she wasn't
going to follow up her insult with physical damage to his vehicle. She made an obscene gesture, drove away. Bor
deaux drivers' manners...

The Bar Rococo was of a higher class than he'd expected. Large bulbous pots stuffed with green ferns obscured a clear
view inside. The tables had clean red check cloths. The
waiters' green aprons were also spotless. He wandered
among the ferns and stopped. She fitted her description, but
again he was surprised - she was so attractive and well
dressed. Could this be her?

'Isabelle Thomas?' he enquired politely in French.

'Yes.' Her tone was guarded.

'Good, I'm Alain Dreyfus,' he went on, giving the code name Paula had arranged with her from London. 'May I sit
down?'

'Certainly, Mr Robert Newman. And we can speak in
English,' she continued in that language.

It was his third surprise. She smiled as she saw his
expression when he was sitting opposite her.

'Actually, I recognize you from pictures I've seen in the foreign press. You are Robert Newman, aren't you? And your profession?'

She was covering herself again, wondering if she had made a bad mistake. He smiled reassuringly. Inwardly he
felt annoyed she had penetrated his real identity so quickly.

'I am Robert Newman, foreign correspondent. Is it safe
to talk here?'

'That is why I chose this rendezvous. It early. We are almost the only people here. And, as you see, the heavy lace curtains conceal us from the street.'

She was more than attractive, she was beautiful, New
man was thinking. She had a mane of titian hair, a slim, tall
neck, good bone structure, greenish eyes, and a dear com
plexion. Very little make-up: just a touch of red lipstick on her firm mouth. She struck him as a woman of character. In
her late twenties. And what she said about the place was
true -
there was no one else anywhere near them.

'An aperitif?' he suggested as a waiter hovered.

'Why don't we go straight on to a bottle of wine? You choose. Doesn't matter what we decide to eat as far as I'm
concerned.'

'We'll have a 1979 red Bordeaux,' he told the waiter in French. 'Leave the menu. We'll order later.'

'Pushing the boat out a bit, aren't we?' she teased him.

'I've had a long day.'

'Do you mind if I start talking about what happened?'

'I wish you would. But first, let me ask you something. Was Henri your first serious boyfriend?'

'No.' Her expression changed, became intense. 'I was
engaged to be married to a soldier with the Third Army
Corps. A tank commander. It ended tragically.'

'You want to tell me how?'

'Someone should know about General Charles de Forge.'
Her tone dripped contempt. 'Joseph Roux was his name,
would have become mine - Roux. I have never told this to
anyone. As a foreign correspondent you might like to add
to your experience. It's a pretty horrific story. I don't want
to spoil your meal.'

'I've developed a pretty strong stomach. Go on.'

'Joseph was very independent-minded. De Forge has
what he calls the punishment well...'

'I've heard some details about it.'

'You have? Your contacts must be pretty good. Joseph
was among a group of troops addressed by the General one day. De Forge likes the sound of his own voice. He was
damning the Jews, said they ought to be eliminated from
French life. After he'd finished speaking he asked if there
were any questions. You're not supposed to react to that. Joseph did.'

'What did he say?'

'That he thought he was in the Army. That politics was
nothing to do with the military. And in any case he had two
good friends who were Jews. He said that anti-Semitism
was a curse, that it was anti-French. De Forge was livid. He
gave the order at once.'

She paused, drank some wine, her hand trembled
slightly. She tightened her grip on the
glass, was careful to stand it back on the table without trembling.

'What order?' Newman asked quietly. 'If you want to go
on with this.'

'Now I've started,' she said firmly. 'They took him to the punishment well immediately. Joseph was hung in the well by his thumbs.' She leaned forward, her gaze intense. 'Can
you imagine hanging for six hours by your thumbs? And Joseph was a big man.'

'Quite horrible - and barbaric.'

'That's how de Forge maintains what he likes to call iron
discipline. Some of his officers call him the Iron Man.'

'Go on about Joseph. What happened next?'

'After the six hours they hauled him up out of the well.
He was kept in the military hospital at GHQ and then
discharged from the Army with a big pension.'

'What sort of state was he in?' Newman asked gently.

'I wasn't allowed to visit him in hospital. When he came
home both thumbs were horribly distended. My doctor
examined him and said he would be a cripple for life.
Nothing could be done for him. Joseph was a very active
man and they'd reduced him to a wreck. That's what he
said to me, "I'm a shipwreck for ever."'

'What did his parents say? Do?'

'Joseph was an orphan. We had been living together in
an apartment. A very unpleasant officer, a Major Lamy, told
him just before he left hospital that if he ever told anyone
what had happened his pension would stop at once.'

'What was Joseph's reaction?

'At first he thought we could get married and live on the
pension.'

'Which is why he kept quiet about the atrocity?'

'There was more to it than that...'

She paused as the waiter served the grilled red mullet
and
pommes natures
they had both ordered. Newman disliked the way the fish's head leered at him. He cut it off, hid it under the tail.

'You were saying?' he coaxed her.

'Joseph was very self-conscious about his handicap. He
thought it made him look like a freak. The idea of being
interviewed by reporters - then photographed - horrified
him.' She gulped, drank more wine. Something even grim
mer was coming Newman sensed. She ate for a few minutes,
then put down her knife and fork.

'He became very depressed. There was so much he was
unable to do for himself. I knew something was going to
happen when we stopped making love. He said he was no good to me any more. I argued that was nonsense. One
evening after dark he said he was going
to go out by
himself, to have a drink in a bar, to learn to lead a normal
life. I was glad.'

She drank more wine and stared at Newman as he
refilled her glass. She was nerving herself to tell him something. He let her take her time.

'Joseph fooled me with his story about going to a bar. He
had secretly bought two heavy
iron weights from a hard
ware shop. He drove to a bridge over the Garonne, got out, attached the weights with rope to each ankle, lifted himself
and the weights somehow over the side of the bridge, and
went down into the Garonne. Divers brought up his body
later that night. A woman had seen him go over and called
the police. So, you see, General Charles de Forge is a
murderer.'

'How long ago?' Newman asked, for something to say.

Two years. It seems like two weeks. I lived for revenge
until I met Henri. And now Henri is gone - murdered by
the Government's DST. What is happening?'

Newman changed the direction of the conversation, ask
ing her about herself. She had returned to living at home with her mother in a Bordeaux apartment. At the moment her mother was visiting relatives in Arcachon, a port and
seaside town on the Atlantic coast west of Bordeaux.

She worked as an account executive for an agency. Yes,
she was young to hold such a job, but they had found
women directors of client firms preferred dealing with their
own sex. Especially when they were advertising women's clothes and underwear.

'You must earn a good salary,' Newman suggested.

'Far more than most girls my age. Which is perhaps why I have few friends.'

'Is there somewhere private we could go to chat and be
sure we're not overheard?'

Newman looked round. The restaurant was filling up. At tables close by every chair was taken. He wondered why it was called a bar and voiced the question aloud.

'They have a large bar downstairs which is very popular. As to somewhere quiet...' She considered, watching Newman while she drank the rest of her coffee. 'I told you my
mother has gone to Arcachon - so there is no one at the
apartment. We could go there ...'