Cross of Fire (60 page)

'Driving all round the countryside, stopped at road
blocks, showing my papers. Not my real ones.'

'Roadblocks?' Paula was puzzled.

'Soldiers of the Third Army ...'

'You mean the Third Corps.'

'No. I questioned that. They clearly said the Third Army.
They seemed to be searching for someone. I tried to get them to talk but all they'd say was they were on military
manoeuvres. Then they shut up like clams. You'd think it
was a state of martial law.'

'Rather disturbing.' Paula probed.

'It's not going to disturb our meal...'

An hour later Paula felt her stomach. She had pigged it,
but felt much better for the experience. Glancing at her
watch, she grimaced.

'I'm afraid I must go now, Victor. Thank you for a wonderful evening. I've enjoyed every moment.'

'Hold on.' Rosewater protested. 'I thought we'd go for a
drive. I know a club which will still be open. We could have
a nightcap, maybe even a dance.'

'Sorry. I'd love to. But I'm tired. Give me a number
where I can get in touch with you.'

Rosewater took out a notebook, scribbled a number.
Handing over the sheet he'd torn out he put the same
question to her.

'Where can I contact you?'

'You can't.' She smiled. 'I move around. My job.'

'Mysterious lady ...'

The waiter brought her coat. Rosewater helped her on with it. His hand squeezed her shoulder affectionately. As they walked to the door Butler, who had paid his bill strolled after them. He caught them up as they stood outside. Paula introduced him to Rosewater.

'This is my cousin, Harry.'

'Saw you in the restaurant.' Rosewater commented as
they shook hands. 'You should have joined us,' he added
without enthusiasm.

'I'm no gooseberry.' Butler's expression was blank.

'We're walking.' Paula explained. 'Where is your car?'

'Parked round the corner in a cul-de-sac off the front.'
Rosewater replied. 'Let's keep in touch. Goodnight.'

He walked off towards the front. Butler touched Paula's
elbow and she stayed where she was until Rosewater had disappeared round a corner. Then they walked to where
Nield
still sat patiently in the Renault. Paula thought of him sitting in the car while she had eaten a prince of meals. She dived into the back.

'Pete, when did you last eat?'

'Half an hour ago.' Nield twisted round, grinned at her,
holding up something. 'Sandwiches from a cool bag. I
always travel with rations. Plus a flask of coffee.'

'Get moving.' said Harry as he sat beside Nield. 'Back to the Atlantique. Drive slowly.'

'Not yet. Before we go I want to investigate that Porsche.
It's been sitting there ever since we arrived. Back in a
minute.'

He was out of the car before Butler could reply. Paula
saw Nield was carrying his Walther in his right hand held
down close to his side. Nield walked along the pavement
on the opposite side of the road to where the Porsche stood like a tiger crouched to spring.

He strolled along like a local on his way home, collar
turned up against the bitter night. No one else was in sight.

His rubber soled shoes made no sound as he came close to
the car shrouded in the unnerving shadows.

With his left hand he pulled his collar tighter round his
neck as he glanced across at the stationary vehicle. Paula felt moisture exuding from her palms as she saw Nield
casually cross the road at a diagonal angle so he could see
the driver's seat from the rear. Paula tensed herself for the
sound of gunshots.

He circled the car from the rear, walked in front of it and
back down the street. Climbing in behind the wheel of the
Renault, he bolstered his Walther.

'False alarm. No one there. So back to the Atlantique.'

'And drive slowly.' Butler repeated as they started to
move.

'You said that before.'

'I'm hoping Jean Burgoyne will phone me,' Paula
remarked. 'The sooner she gets away from that villa the better.'

'She'll have to look after herself.' Butler replied.

Nield stopped suddenly, swore, said he'd dropped his
wallet. He left the engine running, hurried back the way
they had come. He returned fairly quickly, saying he'd been lucky as he stuffed his wallet into his pocket. Paula thought
his behaviour odd: Pete never lost anything. They cruised
the streets of Arcachon on their way back to the Atlantique. Mostly the streets were deserted: the late hour, the subzero temperature, the time of year - November about to run into December. They turned a corner and Paula called out.

'Crawl, Pete.'

Ahead of them a man walked on the pavement on their side. Despite his heavy overcoat,
his astrakhan hat, Paula recognized his way of holding himself, of walking with a deliberate tread like a man pacing out a specific distance.

'That's Lieutenant Berthier again.'

'Sure?' asked Butler.

'Certain. I should know. I spent time with him during
my visit to Aldeburgh when he was posing as James
Sanders.'

'Move just a bit faster, Pete,' Butler advised. 'He'll be suspicious if we crawl past him.'

Paula glanced quickly out of the window just before they
came alongside Berthier, then ducked out of sight. Yes, it
was definitely de Forge's man. They were approaching the Atlantique when Butler made his comment.

'It's a bit odd. Berthier prowling round the town. And
we
encountered polite Mr Brand, also in Arcachon. You
would think something was about to happen in this neck of
the woods.'

'Don't!' Paula protested. 'I'm worried about Jean
Burgoyne. She could have called while I was out.'

'Soon know that,' Butler replied.

Yvette Mourlon, de Forge's agent, had followed the Rover driven by Jean Burgoyne without her quarry suspecting she had been followed. Yvette's beat-up Peugeot looked like so many other French cars involved in a collision.

Arriving at the Atlantique after dark, Jean went up to the desk clerk. She phrased her enquiry carefully.

'My friend, Paula Grey, said she was staying at a hotel in Arcachon. I hope I've got the right place.'

She rested on the counter her hand holding two bank
notes. The clerk's hand straightened up the register and
with the same movement he relieved her of the money.

'You've come to the right hotel. She's here.'

'Great! Could you give me her room number?'

'Wouldn't do you any good. She's out.'

'Have you any idea when she's expected back?' Jean
pressed.

'None at all. She doesn't tell me her movements.' He
hesitated, leaned over the counter. 'I had the impression she
was going out for the evening. Had a man with her.'

'Thank you. Do you mind if I wait?' She glanced round the gloomy lobby. 'On that banquette over there?'

'Please yourself...'

The leather banquette had a slit in it and stuffing protruded. Not exactly the Ritz, Jean thought, as she settled
down to wait. She sat there for quite a long time and then
began to get nervous. De Forge might have returned to the villa. In which case men already be out looking for her. She
felt very visible.

Opening her bag, she extracted a well-worn local map and
studied it. The trouble was she going to have to leave it with
the night clerk who was the nosy type - so she'd little doubt he'd find a way of opening a sealed envelope. The solution occurred to her and she marked three different locations on the map with crosses. Then she inserted a number inside a circle above each cross. One. Two. Three. She scribbled a
note, put map and note in one of the large envelopes she
always carried, wrote Paula Grey's name on it.

Taking it to the night clerk who sat reading a newspaper, she handed the envelope to him with two more banknotes.

'I have to go out. Could you please give this to Paula Grey as soon as she returns? And I expect you'll have a
room for me at this time of the year?'

'Name?'

'Lisa Mason. No. I'm in a rush. I'll fill in the register when I get back...'

*

Earlier Yvette Mourlon had watched Burgoyne enter the Atlantique. She waited for a few minutes to see if she was
coming out again. Convinced she was staying for the night,
she drove a short distance further down the street, parking in the shadow of a high wall. She elevated her aerial and
turned her transmitter to the right point on the waveband. She gave her codename when she had made contact and
began talking.

'Yvette here. Subject at Hotel Atlantique in Arcachon
at moment. Appears to be there for the night. Any
orders?'

'Yes, Yvette. Keep subject's hotel under surveillance. Report immediately any fresh movement of subject. Follow if necessary. Repeat - immediately.'

'Understood...'

Yvette slammed the microphone back inside the con
cealed compartment. Arrogant bitch! And she found it
strange that this uppity cow of a girl took certain messages
- that Major Lamy, whom she normally spoke to, was absent
sometimes. Always when someone died later.

Lieutenant Berthier was walking along a side street close to the front when his mobile phone beeped. He stepped inside
the alcove of a doorway, pulled out the phone from
under
his coat, answered, listened.

He received exactly the same message which had been
transmitted to Yvette except for the reference to continue
surveillance. He was also told to phone back at fifteen-
minute intervals.

Berthier closed down his aerial and began hurrying to the front where he'd left his means of transport.

*

Brand made the phone call from a cubicle in a corner of the bar. He listened, replied briefly, replaced the receiver. Leav
ing the money for his drink on the counter he hurried to
where he'd parked his car.

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Paula took the envelope handed to her by the night clerk at
the Atlantique. She was hurrying upstairs with Nield and
Butler when the clerk called after her. His expression said worlds: all three together in one room?

'A man called to ask if you were in.'

'Leave a name?'

'Just puts down the phone on me when I say no.'

Inside her room Paula examined the envelope with Butler
while Nield peered out between the curtains.

'This has been opened.' Paula decided. 'Then it has been
crudely stuck down again.'