British Bulldog (8 page)

‘He was stationed in France for the rest of the war. He was up to something, but I’ve no idea what, and I don’t know what happened to him afterwards. I can’t tell you more than that. I don’t cover France nearly so much these days. It’s not my bag.’

‘Bradley went to bring Caine home in 1944 – after the Germans surrendered Paris. Jack Duggan appears to have gone with him. But Caine didn’t make his transport.’

Eddie shrugged his shoulders. As far as Mirabelle was aware Brandon didn’t know about her relationship with Jack. No one in London had. But then, she was beginning to realise she didn’t know as much about her lover’s activities as she thought she did – during wartime and otherwise.

‘It struck me as unusual,’ she said. ‘Jack going.’

There was an unwritten rule about high-level personnel risking missions into enemy territory and Paris had been on the cusp of freedom, but only just. Britain didn’t want its finest captured, their rank discovered and information tortured out of them. During the war several officers – real military types – had gone anyway and been shot down; she’d heard of one chap who had simply doctored his uniform and pretended to be his younger cousin. He’d lasted out the war in a POW camp, great chunks of classified information kept safe by his false identity, though he admitted that he had lost considerable sleep over what would happen should his cousin be captured too.

‘Jack liked Paris,’ Eddie said. ‘I went with him after the war once and he trailed me around the place trying to buy something from Dior for his wife. He kept saying how French women were the most beautiful in the world. We almost missed our table at Maxim’s over a silk blouse.’

Mirabelle froze. Jack had bought her a Dior blouse – a red one. She didn’t know it had come from Paris. In fact, she’d assumed he’d picked it up at Harrods. This emerging secret life of Jack’s was unsettling. She had always considered herself Jack Duggan’s greatest secret. Now it appeared there might be competition.

‘Is there someone I could speak to over there?’ she asked as the waiter arrived with Eddie’s cocktail.

Eddie picked up his glass and took an eager sip. ‘Curaçao,’ he said, smacking his lips. ‘The thing is, people want to forget the war, Mirabelle. In France they’ve done that more successfully than here. We’re still paying our debts; we can’t quite shake it off. It’ll be decades. It’s different on the continent. The French and even the Germans are better at letting it go. You should see how the Japanese are set. You wouldn’t believe it. If I were you I wouldn’t go digging up all this old guff. What’s the point?’

‘Bradley asked me to, so I won’t be taking your advice, I’m afraid. He had something on his mind when he died and he wanted
me
to look into it. I intend to track it down, whatever it is. I understand you don’t think it’s a good idea, but if you wanted to give me some pointers, it would save me time.’

Eddie relit his cigar. ‘I don’t know how Churchill manages those huge stogies,’ he said.

Mirabelle didn’t take her eyes off him.

‘All right.’ He gave way. ‘If you must. Though I advise against it.’

‘Noted.’

Eddie sighed. ‘Near the church at Saint-Eustache there’s a street called rue du Jour. Like
soupe du jour,
you know?’

‘Near the market at Les Halles?’

‘That’s the ticket. Look for a woman there – she’s notorious. Christine. I heard she set up shop somewhere in the vicinity. I don’t know more than that. She was a collaborator.’

‘A Nazi collaborator?’

‘Yes. That’s why she’s notorious.’

‘But she was really one of ours?’

Eddie nodded. ‘We offered to take her out of France after the war but she insisted on staying in Paris. They shaved her head and beat her about a bit. I think it took her a long time to find work and so forth. We owned up to her, of course, but it had gone too far by then and there was a lot of talk about people who had buttered up both sides. She’d probably come quite close to that. It was a tightrope, I expect. Resistance fighters were our bravest – far more so than our own chaps. Fellows like Bradley who got out risked being incarcerated again – that was the size of it. The resisters who helped escapees were shot.’

‘And there were women?’

‘It was the women who were left behind. Often they ran the lines – in charge of the whole damn thing. Admirable, really.’

‘Thanks.’ Mirabelle finished her drink. ‘I’d best get going.’

‘Say hello to the
sous chef at
Maxim’s.’ Eddie winked.

‘All the nice boys like a sailor.’

Eddie saluted. He had started in the Royal Navy, after all.

Chapter 12

Memories keep the wolf of insignificance from the door
.

I
t was dark by the time the train reached Dover. Mirabelle settled in the bar for the crossing. As a child she’d visited her grandmother in Paris. The old lady lived in a grand apartment near Parc Monceau where Mirabelle’s mother had been brought up. Mirabelle’s early memories of the city were the scattered recollections of a child no more than eight years of age. Paris had meant hot milk and bread with jam for breakfast and walking the old lady’s poodle in the park. To a child’s eye, the capital was no more than an exotic mixture of beautiful displays in the windows of the city’s meticulous florists and bistros where waiters fussed over Grandma and called her ‘Madame’. Long after the old lady died, in Mirabelle’s student days, the city became synonymous with all-night parties fuelled by champagne and intrigue that kept everyone up to watch the sunrise over the rooftops as they walked home along the Seine.

And now, all these years later, she was going back. What would Paris mean to her now? Feeling abstemious she sipped a tomato juice as the motion rocked her from side to side. She found herself daydreaming of golden leaves falling on the park’s winding paths as her grandmother’s little black dog rushed through them, and, years later, of dancing in a
boîte –
a cramped nightclub that as far as she could recall was somewhere near Pigalle. A jolt woke her unexpectedly and she stretched her stiff limbs, self-consciously realising that she had
fallen asleep. Her mouth was dry. The ice in her glass had long since melted and become a thin layer of watery red on the surface of her drink. The barman, perched on a high stool reading a paperback with a garish flash of orange on the cover, looked up.

‘Can I fetch you something, madam? A cup of tea?’

In the old days she’d have been ‘miss’ and he’d have offered her a cocktail. Mirabelle checked her watch.

‘Coffee would be nice, if you have it.’

The barman disappeared into the galley to the rear and Mirabelle could hear him fiddling with a proper coffee maker. Insipid coffee would be unacceptable on a journey to Paris, she thought. Of course it would.

When it came, the coffee revived her, and as she drank she turned her mind to Bulldog Bradley and Philip Caine once more. She had told Mrs Bradley she was declining the major’s bequest, and indeed had fully intended to pursue the matter no further, but the knowledge that Jack was somehow involved had changed her mind. The difference was, her search for the truth would no longer be on the major’s account; it was on her own.

It seemed the men had come to terms over Lady Caroline. At least, they had done so by 1944. Or had Bulldog come to find Caine because he wanted to apologise to his old friend? And what had Jack been doing there? Quite apart from being a family friend of the Bradleys, he must have had an official function to perform in this story. Had Caine worked under him? But if so, why didn’t the flight lieutenant want to come home? As a pilot with a stint in covert operations, he’d have been a hero back in London.

As the train rattled into Paris, the suburbs were shrouded in low cloud. Further along the line the streetlights revealed glossy pavements, wet between showers as the train plunged into the last tunnels before the Gare du Nord. As the
passengers disembarked, the platform was deserted apart from two or three porters who were hastily engaged by those with trunks and piles of suitcases to transport to their hotels. Mirabelle picked up her own case and joined the straggle of travellers emerging into the city’s sacred early morning silence. Outside, the papers were being delivered to the newsstand, and a portly woman smoking a cigarette struggled with a sandwich board that declared a security treaty was required for Europe.
Molotov insiste
, the headline said. Molotov demands it. The tall buildings loomed over the street, dark-windowed and forbidding. Still, it wasn’t as cold as London. A small rank of taxis was quickly depleted and a trail of prospective fares snaked along the railings to wait for more.

Mirabelle turned her back on them. She crossed the main road, then turned eastwards down a side street. Her footsteps echoed on the early morning air. She didn’t know Paris as well as she knew London but at least the city was familiar. She and her Oxford friends had usually shared a suite at the George V all those years ago, but on one occasion the hotel had been full and someone had mentioned a little boarding house near the station. ‘It’ll be rather fun,’ the chap had said. ‘It’s small, so we can take the whole place over. And there’s a piano.’ The other students hadn’t liked it. The glittering crop of Oxford talent judged itself by its surroundings and preferred its accommodation the grander the better. But the truth was Mirabelle had liked the little lodging house more than its glossy upmarket cousin. Now she turned a corner and her nostrils were assaulted by the smell of baking. A tiny
boulangerie
with a red door and gold writing on the window had its lamps lit. It was still closed, but Mirabelle rapped on the glass and bought two croissants over the doorstep with money she’d changed at Dover.

The hotel came into view round the next corner. In the darkness the building looked just as she’d last seen it – the windows overlooking the street were masked by dark shutters
and the sills were lined with window boxes sporting trailing plants. A sign hung over the door: Hôtel Rambeau. Inside, the lights were off and the front door, encrusted in dusty green gloss, stood locked for the night. Mirabelle put her case down on the pavement and perched on top of it, withdrawing one of the croissants from the brown paper bag and taking a bite. The pastry melted in her mouth: there was nothing in the world like French butter. The flavour took her back to her Parc Monceau days. A rag and bone man drove his cart across the top of the street, the horse’s hooves clattering on the cobbles. Mirabelle licked her fingers and rubbed the chalk customs mark off her case. There shouldn’t be too long to wait. At half past six, when the light snapped on above her, she stood up and rang the bell. At length a window opened on the first floor and a vaguely familiar face peered out.

‘I need a room,’ she said in French. ‘I’ve come from the station.’

The man motioned for her to wait. A minute later, when he appeared at the door, she could see how he had aged since the last time she’d been here. His hair had turned completely white and he seemed smaller. But then, it had been twenty years. Her eye was drawn to the blue woollen dressing gown wrapped around his shrinking frame. Its belt was tied in such a complicated knot that she wondered if he would ever manage to untangle it.

The old man peered into the dark street, stroking his unshaven chin. The light of recognition almost sparked in his eyes but not quite. Mirabelle decided not to remind him. She wasn’t proud of the nocturnal escapades of her youth. Fired by cocktails, they’d come back from dancing at four in the morning and played the piano, disturbing the entire block. Her friends had found it amusing.

She reached into her bag and pulled out some francs.
‘Trois nuits,’
she said.

Three nights should be enough. At the sight of the money the man’s face softened. He beckoned her inside and removed a key from its peg behind a little reception desk. Only three rooms were taken, Mirabelle noticed. The hotel was quiet, which was all to the good.

‘Anglaise?’

Mirabelle nodded.

‘Londres
?’

She nodded again. There was no sense in making things more complicated, and the man might never have heard of Brighton, which, in any case, would be difficult for him to spell when he came to fill in the hotel register. He pointed to the dingy staircase. Mirabelle lingered. She remembered the hotel being prettier. In the old days the hallway had had fresh flowers displayed on every ledge, although admittedly it had been summertime. Now there was only a box of dried lavender on the landing and a row of empty jugs decorating the sill. The old man grabbed Mirabelle’s case with a surprisingly firm fist and accompanied her to a room on the first floor.

‘
Et voilà
.’ He opened the door with as much flourish as he could summon at such an early hour. Mirabelle peered inside. The room was clean and it was to the rear of the building so it would be quiet. The window looked over a courtyard and the bed appeared comfortable. She ran a hand over the turned-down sheet. The French always had good quality linen.

‘Merci,’
she said, removing the key from the lock.

The old man turned to go. Making sure he had left, Mirabelle closed the shutters and laid her suitcase on the bed. She opened the catch and piled her clothes and toilet bag against the pillow, reaching inside the case to carefully flick a switch that was built into the brown taffeta lining. The bottom of the case sprang open, revealing a hidden pocket no more than an inch thick. She had flouted the currency restrictions, changing the permissible value of pounds into francs but also concealing an
additional stash of notes. Paris, she recalled, was an expensive city and government limits on the movement of money were on the tight side. She balanced this with the universal truth that information cost. With a smile, Mirabelle smoothly removed the tidy sheaf of notes and slipped it into her handbag. Then she turned to the enamel sink in the corner and washed the travel stains from her skin. She checked her appearance in the mirror, and, pleased enough with what she saw, picked up a thin scarf from the pile of clothes on the bed and tied it at a jaunty angle – a certain style was mandatory in Paris. Then, nodding at her reflection in the mirror, Mirabelle left the room. If she walked to the American Hospital, she’d get there by nine o’clock when the administration department and archive opened. The hospital was situated in the leafy Seine-side suburb of Neuilly where some of Paris’s most prestigious families were housed. It would be a pleasant walk, and if Mirabelle wasn’t mistaken she would pass Parc Monceau on her way. She left the room key on the reception desk and slipped back onto the street.

The first watery light of the morning was seeping into the sky. Paris woke slowly, like a giant lumbering to its feet. Mirabelle made her way towards the river. The air felt fresh as she came to the park. Watching the bare trees behind the railings she made out one or two people up early walking their dogs. As if there might be a ghost, Mirabelle decided not to walk inside the gates. In her imagination, her grandmother’s old-fashioned ankle-length dresses and laced winter boots passed in a flash of nostalgia. It must have been 1922 when the old woman died. Now Mirabelle kept her distance, skirting the wide pavements at the perimeter of the park. On the other side of the boulevard the houses were ornate, their pale stone carved with panache and thin wrought-iron balconies stocked with terracotta plant pots. Several delivery vans were in evidence and men in suits bustled towards the Métro,
newspapers tucked firmly under their arms. Open-fronted cafés lit braziers outside. There seemed less bomb damage than in London, but in places some of the stone was pockmarked with bullet holes. The Resistance had put up a fight on the streets here and there. At least London had never had to endure that.

Cutting north away from her childhood memories, Mirabelle made for the river. The walk was refreshing and it was pleasant to see people going about their business, children on their way to school and staff smoking outside shops waiting for the manager to arrive with the key. Paris was gloriously green, trees lining the main streets, cutting through the buildings in a swathe, fanning out from the Champs-Élysées.

It was almost nine o’clock when Mirabelle arrived at her destination. As she remembered, the buildings in Neuilly were imposing and the boulevard Victor Hugo was easy to find. The hospital took up almost a block – a brick-built, two-tone complex with ambulances parked in the courtyard. Mirabelle entered the main door smartly and asked a porter for directions to the archive, which it transpired was located in the basement. She took the stairs and was perched on the bench outside the office door at nine o’clock sharp when a flustered chubby woman in a pale blue winter coat arrived in a cloud of floral scent. Her scarf trailed across the tiled floor as she fumbled in her handbag for her keys, pulling off one glove and holding it in her mouth as an unruly blonde curl escaped from the rim of her hat.

‘
Bonjour
.’ Mirabelle sprang to her feet.

‘Bonjour,’
the woman said, an American accent spread as thickly as peanut butter over her vowels. She removed the glove from between her teeth and smiled, her plump cheeks rosy from the cold and her blue eyes shining.
‘Bonjour,’
she tried again.

‘Do you prefer English?’ Mirabelle asked.

The woman’s smile opened into an unimaginably broad grin that was startlingly white.

‘Yes please,’ she admitted as she turned the key in the lock.

‘I rang yesterday …’ Mirabelle started, just as a slim young man appeared behind her – a chap of a more tidy disposition. He reminded Mirabelle of a filing cabinet with its drawers tightly shut.

‘Bonjour,’
he said curtly, nodding in the women’s direction.

‘Ah, perhaps this is the gentleman to whom I spoke.’

‘Claude?’

The man stiffened as the American woman continued in the worst French accent Mirabelle had ever heard.
‘Avez-vous parlé avec cette dame-ci?’
Have you spoken to this woman?

‘
Je ne sais pas
.’ I don’t know, Claude ground out, his expression closing like a steel trap.

The American waved him off. ‘Perhaps it would best if I dealt with your enquiry,’ she told Mirabelle.

With barely disguised outrage, Claude strutted into a room at the rear of the office and switched on the lights before pointedly closing the door.

‘He’s French,’ the woman mouthed, as if it was a never-to-be-guessed secret and something of which to be ashamed. ‘I don’t think he likes females at all, you know.’

She removed her scarf and hat and tossed them untidily onto a chair. This action alone was so expansive that it seemed to fill the room.