Voices on the Wind (2 page)

Kate finished her drink. It tasted rather strong, and she was feeling confident. Not the lonely old bore that everyone avoided, gassing on about herself. At last she had met someone who would really be interested. She took courage and called out, ‘I'll have another, Jim.' Then she turned round to the stranger. ‘My family came to England in 1940. Mother was French, so we all talked French at home. My name is Kate Alfurd.'

‘Paul Roulier,' he said. ‘Please, let me buy that. Do you go back to France often?'

‘Not since 1947,' she said.

‘What a pity. You should make a visit.'

‘Do you know Nice?'

‘Yes, very well. I worked there for three years.'

‘I wouldn't recognize it,' she said. ‘But then I was there in funny circumstances.' It was easy to launch out with strangers, but she found the Frenchman inhibiting. Nobody believed her; there were times when she had begun to listen to herself and doubt. Her daughter never talked about it, as if it was something that embarrassed her, and Robert, her husband, had kept his part a secret from their closest friends. If this man thinks I'm lying or making it up, she thought, I won't have any real identity left. Maybe I shouldn't take the chance. Maybe I should go home.

He saw the hesitation. He said in French, ‘Madame Alfurd, I would be so interested to hear about it. I would like some lunch. Please will you join me?'

As if it were a challenge she replied. Her French was faultless, the accent slightly provincial. ‘That's very kind of you, Monsieur Roulier. The smoked trout is excellent, I always have that on a Saturday here. And if you are really interested in my story, I'd be delighted to tell you.' The beautiful smile appeared again. He couldn't help being attracted by it. ‘I'm afraid I've bored everyone to tears for miles around. I hope I won't bore you.'

He took her to a corner table; it was standing on an uneven floor. The wobble maddened him. He put a piece of folded paper under the shorter leg.

‘If they're bored by you, they must be very stupid,' he said. He had very light blue eyes; a rare smile that seldom reached them. There was something that she felt akin to, although the age difference was at least twenty years. ‘Please tell me about the time you were in Nice. Why was it “funny”, as you said in English?'

Kate said simply, ‘Because I went back in 1944. I worked for the Resistance. You know the Nazi war criminal, Eilenburg, they extradited from Chile last month?'

He nodded. ‘I've read about him. The “Butcher of Marseilles”. There's been a furore in France about the trial.'

Kate said, ‘I knew him too. Can you believe that?'

‘Why shouldn't I believe it?' Several couples had come into the bar. There was a level of noise and some laughter, but they didn't hear it. His concentration upon her was so intense she wasn't aware of anyone else being there. She leaned back, and suddenly she looked tired and near her age.

‘Because nobody else does,' she said. ‘Nobody believes a word or gives a damn. They think I'm dotty because I live alone since my husband died. But it's true; I worked with the Dulac network until the Gestapo broke it up. I worked as radio operator for Jean Dulac. I know what happened and I know what Eilenburg did. But he wasn't the worst. The real criminals have never been touched. There's some of us left who'd like to see them dragged out to stand in the dock with him. And they weren't Germans.'

Somebody told a motorist's joke and there was a loud burst of laughter like gunfire. The little terrier barked in response. ‘I know that,' Paul Roulier said. ‘That's why I've come to England. To talk to you, Madame Alfurd. Will you help us find them?'

At the door of her cottage, Paul Roulier had said, ‘Of course, you need to think about it. But I have to know soon, Madame. There isn't much time.'

How can silence be so loud, she thought, picking up the little dog, holding it on her lap like a shield. I can hear my own heart beating. God, what have I done with his telephone number – she searched her bag in a panic, only to find it neatly written on a business card, the name of a modest London hotel inked in above.

‘Will you help us find them?' No more than that; no attempt to persuade her afterwards, just the short walk back to her front door and the cool handshake. ‘I have to know soon. There isn't much time.' SS Standartenführer Christian Eilenburg was in the prison hospital in Marseilles. The evidence was being gathered for a trial that was already tearing France to pieces before it opened. His crimes would be punished, but what about the others – so many sins had been hidden, the sinners protected. She sat on, chain-smoking, the dog asleep. For a long time she used to see their faces, when she closed her eyes and tried to sleep. Her companions in arms who were also her friends. Judy, who fell in love and paid a dreadful price … Fred … Ma Mère, who was too old to be in it … Janot her son … Jean Dulac. She had spoken his name that day to the strange Frenchman. He was so real in her mind's eye she could have touched him. Dynamic, inspiring, a born leader who was a hero to men and women. ‘A great man,' Katharine Alfurd said aloud. ‘They put a statue up in the market square after the war. I heard about it, but I didn't want to see it. Nobody must mention your clay feet, my darling, because at the end you redeemed all those terrible mistakes you made.' She stood up, confronting the memories suppressed for so long. ‘I loved you so much. I loved you, but I couldn't save you, because you wouldn't listen. You just laughed and kissed me and it was too late then. But there was you, Pierrot. You saved my life and I tried to get you hanged for it –'

Forty years ago. She had married, soon after the war, had a child, settled down to a normal life. Which meant that she had given in, because she knew she couldn't win. Her husband had persuaded her that it was hopeless to continue. Pointless to torture herself over what was past. She could remember the night very clearly. They were nestled close together in bed, talking as they often did after making love. It was always a vulnerable time for her. ‘Give up, my darling. There's nothing you can do, and there isn't any proof. Put it out of your mind once and for all, and for God's sake let's be happy. Let the dead rest in peace.' That was the moment when she finally accepted defeat. Judy; Fred; Janot; Ma Mère. Jean Dulac, her lover, whom she had never really stopped loving. And Philippe Derain, who was Pierrot. That was why she couldn't stop talking about it now, telling perfect strangers who thought she was making it up. Because she was guilty and the dead were not at rest. In the night's silence she heard their voices on the wind.

She had never mentioned her wartime life, nor had Robert Alfurd. When he died it was as if she was released from a vow of silence she didn't know she'd taken. Naturally, nobody believed her. Now Christian Eilenburg was in the spotlight. Forty years ago had become Now. Fate, or God, if you believed in Him, had given her a second chance to put those ghosts to rest. The terrier ran to the garden door and looked expectant. ‘Yes, Polly dear, we'll have our walk. As soon as I've done this.'

She was put through to Roulier's room, and he answered as if he had been waiting for the call. ‘This is Katharine Alfurd. You'd better come down and see me. Yes, tomorrow would be fine.' She hung up. A sentence floated into her mind; it had no connection with the brief conversation. The candle of the wicked shall be put out. From the Old Testament. Of course, it was a coded message, broadcast from London. There had been a group of them crouched round the forbidden radio on the top floor of a deserted factory. She remembered the excitement when the message was repeated. How they embraced each other in their joy. The candle of the wicked.…

‘You bastard,' she said quietly. ‘Whoever you are, you'll pay for that.'

Paul Roulier put through a call to Paris. His exchange was short. ‘I made contact and I'm going there tomorrow. It may take some days but I'm confident it's going to work.'

They had moved him to the prison hospital. His blood pressure was already low after the long flight from Chile. A few days after the first examinations had begun, Christian Eilenburg had a heart attack. When he recovered, he merely smiled. He accepted the pills and submitted to the tests, and all the time his eyes mocked them. Wouldn't it be ironic if he died, just when he was in their hands and they were preparing him for sacrifice? He could cheat them at the last, by dying before the trial. How frustrating for his enemies, how bitter for the people crying for revenge. And how convenient for others, who were cursing the Chilean Government that had given him up. After they had felt safe for so many years. They must be praying for him to die. A week after the attack, the senior police doctor examined him.

‘You've improved,' he said. ‘The reading is only slightly below average. You'll live, Eilenburg, and I'm going to make sure that you do.'

The prisoner glanced up at him. ‘My heart is strong,' he said. ‘It won't give out again. Doctor, how old are you?'

‘Thirty-three.' The answer was curt. He didn't want to talk to the man. Treating him was bad enough.

‘Why should you care whether I get to a court or not? You weren't even born till the war was over.'

‘I care about what you did,' the answer snapped back at him. ‘You and the others who got away. And I'm not a Jew, if that's what you think. I'm French!'

Eilenburg smiled. His false teeth had been taken away when he was ill. The mouth was a toothless slit, the eyes bright and still clear blue.

‘Then you should kill me before I get a chance to give evidence,' he murmured. ‘A lot of Frenchmen would be grateful. And Frenchwomen.' He turned his head and shut his eyes. The doctor stood and looked down at him. Then he walked out. The old man tilted his head and saw him go under his eyelids. He knew the type. They were the troublemakers, the self-styled patriots. How his indignation burned, that young man – how they had all burned with that righteous fire, when they planted bombs that blew up other men of the same age, who also had fire in their hearts for their country. Or ambushed them and slit their throats; set them up for women to poison with a glass of wine. He knew the type, and he had treated them as they deserved. He made martyrs of them, and they didn't see the justice of it. He sighed. He felt tired; probably because of the tranquillizers he was given. Rest, Standartenführer Eilenburg. Sleep, Standartenführer Eilenburg. Grow strong so that we can stand you up in the dock and sentence you to life imprisonment, or death, if we can get the law amended.

They might regret it, he thought, and the little smile twitched round his mouth. They might wish they'd let him die before they let him speak. Even left him to end his days in Chile, and take the truth to the grave with him. So now, he was going to conserve his strength for the trial. He would turn French justice into Christian Eilenburg's vindication. He would not be tried alone.

Ten minutes' drive from Paul Roulier's London hotel, two men were dining together in a house in Montpelier Square. It was a tall, elegant Georgian house, far too big for one man living alone. It was a family house, needing children on the nursery floor that overlooked the square. The man who lived there had inherited when his father died after the war. He scarcely remembered his mother; she'd seen very little of her only son and died long before he left preparatory school. There had never been a woman in his life. He lived in solitary state, looked after by a couple who'd worked for him for over thirty years. In his spare time, before he retired, he'd covered a set of Chippendale chairs with exquisite
petit point
needlework. He was old now, and out to grass, as he said; he had time to start on a small carpet.

The dining room was lit by candles; the silver shone; he enjoyed good food and took pride in his cellar of fine wines. As the two men talked, a film of cigar smoke drifted up to the moulded ceiling. The host had a rich, rather theatrical voice, more suited to a Shakespearean actor than a retired colonel.

‘What a pity about Eilenburg. You'd think someone in Paris would have had the sense to put a stop to it.'

‘I thought they had,' his guest remarked. He had a summer cold, and his voice was croaky. He shouldn't have accepted the cigar.

‘Obviously not, old chap. He got better.' The port came in the Colonel's direction. He saw a few drops spill on to the polished table. He leaned over and dabbed at them with his napkin. He loved his ‘things' as he called them. He dusted the good china himself, and made his own mixture of beeswax and turps to preserve the furniture.

‘It'll be years before he comes to trial,' his guest said, ‘you know what the French bureaucracy is like. Some kind of deal will be arranged, I'm sure. Too many important people have too much to lose if he is allowed to give evidence. They won't let it happen. So there's no need for us to worry.'

‘I don't worry,' the Colonel said. ‘It would be much easier to block any investigations now than it was after the war. And just supposing things got out – would you really mind, after all these years? I'm damned if I would!'

‘That's not the official view,' the younger man reminded him. ‘They don't want the past raked up.'

‘Then why don't they do something about it? We would have done. I think this is a very good port. Sixty-two was a great year.'

The Colonel's white hair gleamed in the candlelight. His friend smiled and shook his head. He hadn't changed. He had never hesitated to sanction murder. He was incredible in those days. He really could get people to die for him as well as kill. ‘It is good,' he agreed, finishing the port. ‘You certainly do yourself well. Food was first class.'

‘Morag's a competent cook,' his host agreed. The previous subject had been abandoned. They wouldn't mention it again. ‘She's improved; I sent the old dear on a course two years ago. Ten days in Paris. She loved it, and she came back full of enthusiasm. The English can never really make good sauces, but her pastry was like a feather.
Mille-feuilles
that melted in the mouth, too.'