Voices on the Wind (30 page)

He had walked out of the court a free man. She left the window and began to undress. Tomorrow she would make the first of several pilgrimages. To the house where she and Dulac had spent the last weeks of their lives together. The empty house which had belonged to a family of murdered Jews. Their last act had been to give their friend Dulac the key.

‘If you don't mind,' Katharine Alfurd said, ‘I'd rather go there alone. I only want to see if it's still there.'

Paul Roulier said, ‘Of course. You take the car; I have some things to do this morning, and I hope to have a very important appointment set up for tomorrow.'

‘What sort of appointment? For me?'

‘For both of us,' he said quietly. ‘I'll be able to tell you about it when you get back.' He took her hand and kissed it. It was a lovely drive along the old coast road to Nice. Antibes itself was small and picturesque, an ancient coastal port with its fortress jutting out over the sea, and yachts at rest in the marina, flying every nation's flag in a light breeze.

The broad sweep of the beaches, flanked by hotels and the handsome private villas set back behind trees and hedges. The palms, majestic and timeless as ever, symbols of the sun, and a benevolent climate where the rich could escape winter's cold. Children bobbing in the sea, shouting in the distance and laughing. Sunbathers stretched out in sleepy worship, fleets of cars jamming the roads at traffic lights, the yachts in the blue distance and a cruise ship on the horizon. She noticed the changes, the splendid new hotels, sheeted in glass that caught fire from the sun, the shopping centres on the front with magic names like Dior and St Laurent, ogled by women tourists window-shopping. The beach shops with their colourful goods spilling out on to the pavements, proprietors sunning themselves and chatting. The old railway line running parallel, unchanged from forty years ago. People drinking coffee at tables under bright umbrellas.

It was so long since Kate had driven on the right-hand side of the road. Nice was beautiful in the daylight. Handsome shops and hotel buildings, the white wedding-cake Negresco, with its distinctive awning and the brilliant flowers and shrubs flanking the entrance. Wealth and security were as obvious as the flags flying from the hotel roofs. France was rich and living well, enjoying the present and confident about the future. The past was a small black cloud that nobody wanted to look at anymore. Until Christian Eilenburg was extradited from Chile. She could imagine how embarrassing that must have been, how a lot of people would resent the bloodied waters being stirred up when they had been calm for so long. She turned into the town centre, climbing up the hill, stalling the car once at a traffic light. Up and then leftward, leaving the smart shopping centres behind, going into the sedate residential area of the prosperous middle classes who lived and worked in Nice. There was the street that she remembered; a pleasant tree-shaded road, with houses on either side. Nice houses, fresh with paint and colourful shutters. The house was the last on the left-hand side, set back a little from the road, not as far back as she thought, but then some of the sheltering trees had been cut down. She stopped, got out and walked to the gate. The name had not been changed. La Rosée. She pushed it open and walked up to the front door. It was different of course. It seemed much smaller, less overshadowed. The sun beat down on it, and the door was painted a bright yellow. Baskets of flowers hung on either side, and there was a child's tricycle parked up against the wall. She thought of the bicycle that had carried her so many miles all those years ago. There, to the rear of the house, was the thicket of bushes where she used to hide it.… She didn't ring the bell, because there was a dog barking inside, and a woman looked out of the window. ‘Yes?' she called out.

Kate said, ‘Excuse me, I used to live here. I was only having a look.'

The window shut and a moment later the door opened. The woman standing inside was quite young; she looked suspicious. ‘I'm sorry, but we don't like people poking round. It upsets the dog.'

Kate came a little nearer. ‘Have you lived here long?'

‘Ten years. You say you used to live here?' Curiosity was getting the better of her, but she still held the door and didn't ask Kate to come in.

‘I stayed here,' Kate replied. ‘During the war. I haven't been back since.'

‘Oh, I don't know anything about that.' The reply was brisk, all interest gone. ‘That's well before my time. You'll excuse me.' The door was firmly shut. She turned slowly and walked back down the short path, pushed the wrought iron gate open and latched it shut behind her. There was no atmosphere, no charging of the emotions. The house could have been any house in the street, impersonal, inhabited by strangers.

Kate got into the car, switched on and reversed out of the road. She felt overborne by sadness, and that sadness was turning into the pain of grief she had suppressed and denied for most of her life.

The factory had gone. Katharine Alfurd stood looking at the site. The two-storied building, painted an ugly grey, with blind windows and the side door which they had used to get inside, creaking on a broken hinge, was like a phantasm before her eyes. The reality of a modern supermarket took several seconds to break through the illusion. Nothing remained; the past was obliterated, like the old factory. There was no imprint of tragedy except what she carried on the negative of her memory. She put the car into gear and drove slowly back to Cap d'Antibes.

He was waiting for her when she walked into the hotel. That didn't seem real either, even when he came up and took her arm. A handsome American couple passed them on their way to play tennis. Young and vigorous, the golden rich of the new age.

‘Come and have a drink,' Paul Roulier said quietly, ‘and tell me about your morning.' She made an effort to smile. ‘Not much to tell, I'm afraid. A drink would be nice. I found my trip down memory lane worse than I expected.'

She was silent for some time. He didn't press her. He noticed a slight tremor when she lifted her glass of wine.

‘Would you like some lunch?'

‘I'm not hungry, thanks. Don't let me stop you.'

In the end he said, ‘Tell me about it; it'll make it easier if you can share it.'

‘Share it?' she asked him. ‘I can't share it with anyone. I'm the only one left. I went back to the house we hid in at the end. The woman wouldn't let me in. It looked different, but I should have expected that. The factory was pulled down, of course. There was a huge supermarket instead. Nothing left, Paul. Nothing to show what happened. May 13th, it was. A Thursday, not Friday. That would have been too ironic, wouldn't it? That was when we got the message. Just after seven o'clock in the evening, and the radio was crackling and I couldn't hear properly for ages. It seemed like ages anyway. You don't know about that, do you?'

Roulier shook his head. ‘No.' She stared past him to the view down the splendid steps, flanked by banked geraniums of luscious pink. The sea shimmered in the distance. ‘The candle of the wicked,' she said slowly. ‘That was the signal sent that night. The candle of the wicked shall be put out. It was the code for the Invasion of Europe. Every network knew it, and knew what to do when it came. And we did it, Paul. Without pausing to think. At dawn the next morning the Maquis blew up the section of railway line connecting with the main terminal at Marseilles; it was heavily guarded and they were caught in a gun battle with German troops. Most of them were killed. And Jean mounted an attack on the power station.' He wanted to reach out and take her hand, but he didn't move. ‘We never questioned. The rumours spread of course, and everyone believed there'd been a landing and the Germans were censoring it. But no one heard it on the wireless. Only me, transmitted direct from London.'

‘It would have been broadcast on the BBC French Service,' Roulier said. ‘If it had been genuine.'

‘Yes,' Katharine Alfurd said. ‘If it had been genuine. I have never known what made them do it, I only know they did.'

He made up his mind. The timing was right. ‘That's what we are going to find out,' he said. ‘Why did the British send the local Resistance and the Maquis to their deaths? Christian Eilenburg is going to be tried for killing your comrades, for driving the hero Jean Dulac to commit suicide. But it was your own people who betrayed them. And you're the only one who escaped and knows what they did.'

Kate said quietly, ‘Are you working for the Germans?'

‘No.' She believed him. ‘I've got permission for us to visit Eilenburg in Marseilles prison. Tomorrow morning. Will you see him?'

‘That's the appointment?' He nodded; he felt very tense; waiting for her reaction. Everything, months of preparation, the time spent gaining her confidence, the money involved, all depended upon her answer. Kate said, ‘Who are you working for?'

He said, ‘When you've seen Eilenburg I'll tell you.'

She got up. ‘What time in the morning?'

He reached out and gripped her arm. ‘Ten thirty. You are brave, Kate.'

‘Not really,' she answered. ‘An old man in a jail, forty years later. Would you mind if I spent the afternoon by myself?'

‘If that's what you want,' he said. ‘There's a beautiful private beach here, I can arrange.…'

She interrupted him. ‘No thanks, I don't feel in the mood for lying in the sun. I'll just go and wander round.'

‘Don't worry about tomorrow,' he said. ‘I'll be with you.'

She smiled at him but didn't seem to hear. He watched her walk out of the bar, and when she was out of sight he called the head barman. ‘I want to make a telephone call in private,' he said.

‘Of course. This way, Monsieur.' He was shown into the games room at the back. He dialled a number, spoke a name, and then said, ‘She's going to Marseilles to see him. I'm very confident. But she's insisting I tell her who my client is.' He listened for a moment and then said, ‘Very well. I'll be in contact after the meeting. Yes, yes, he's had the message. Everything has been arranged. Until tomorrow.'

The police in Nice had no report of a Mrs Alfurd registering at any of the hotels or pensions. Immigration at the airport had no record of the name either, but that meant she had already arrived. The authorities at Cannes were notified and they included Juan les Pins and Antibes. It took time, and time was at a premium if Katharine Alfurd was to be reached and stopped. It was out of the hands of old warhorses like Colonel Reed and Lord Wroxham; the young hard-liners of modern Intelligence were given the scent and told to find the quarry. It didn't take them long.

Kate was sitting at a café on the quay at Antibes. It was hot and she was thirsty after the long walk down from the hotel. Sunglasses protected her eyes from the glare, and they gave her a brief respite from detection. There were a number of women her age wandering round Antibes, or sitting in cafés and bars. Women with dark hair slightly touched with grey, slim, medium height and possibly with a younger man who was French. For over thirty years Kate had lived in a country at peace, where the senses were asleep to danger. At home in Amdale she wouldn't have noticed the man, but unconsciously she was thinking as if the past were now, and the old responses woke and watched for danger. He was looking for someone. He was looking at faces as he sauntered past so casually, with a sweeping glance that only lingered on women. On one woman, who was middle-aged and American, with a camera slung round her neck and postcards on the table. And then passed on to her. And away, and then back again. He took a seat not far from her. Not sure, because of the sunglasses. Kate didn't argue with her instinct. She trusted it then as she had done so many years ago, when every German soldier was an enemy and every glance a menace.

She signalled the waiter, and ordered a cup of coffee and an ice cream. The young man was looking at her without looking, as only a professional can. Kate picked up her bag, opened it, pretended to fiddle with a powder compact. Money, a handkerchief, make-up. No identification. She crumpled the few notes in her hand, shut the bag and left it on her chair. She got up and went inside to the lavatory. The man didn't follow or move. She had done what no woman ever does, leave her handbag behind. Not a newspaper or a book as a marker, but a careless hostage, guaranteeing she'd be back in a few minutes. She left the café by the kitchen entrance, and without knowing why or what was threatening her, she ran down to the main square. There were no taxis. Five minutes at the most, and whoever the man was he'd realize she'd tricked him and begin to look for her. She dared not try to get back to the hotel on foot; there was a bus stop, with a little group of people waiting. Kate hurried across the road, and as she did so, the bus to Cannes came round the corner. She pushed her way through and jumped inside. Ten minutes later it set her down a short walk from the Hôtel du Cap.

‘Good afternoon, Madame,' the smiling doorman greeted her.

She didn't answer. She went up to Roulier's room. There was no answer. She shut herself in her own room, trembling and out of breath. She rang down to reception. Monsieur Roulier – no, he's not in his room, can you page him, please? ‘He went out, Madame. Some time ago.'

Kate said, ‘Ring me the moment he comes back,' and hung up. And then began to think she had imagined it, that the man in the café was perfectly innocent, and she'd behaved like a panic-stricken fool. There was one way to make sure, she thought. A good memory was a blessing. The name of the café at Antibes. She got the number through the switchboard. She'd left her bag behind and forgotten her bill. The reply was meant to be reassuring. A gentleman had collected Madame's bag and paid her bill. Kate said, ‘Thank you.'

‘It could be dangerous for you,' Roulier had said, and when she queried the choice of the Hôtel du Cap, ‘Nobody will think of looking for you there.'