Citadel (34 page)

During the course of his sojourn in Chartres, Authié had learnt more about de l’Oradore’s interest in the Languedoc. His focus – obsession – was a trilogy of medieval books said to have been smuggled from the citadel of Montségur in the thirteenth century by the Cathars. De l’Oradore already possessed one of the books and was prepared to spend a great deal of money acquiring the others. His interest in anything else was secondary.

It had become clear that de l’Oradore’s purpose in summoning Authié to Chartres was to consolidate his position within the emerging new structures of enforcing law and order. Having set up Authié as his eyes and ears in the Languedoc, he did not wish to lose him. At his instigation, Authié had travelled to the Préfecture de Police in Paris to meet members of the Brigades Spéciales who were involved in breaking Resistance networks and organisations and had been given an insight into how the war against the terrorists – the partisans – was being conducted.

Authié’s sense, in both Chartres and Paris, was of order restored. It was at first disquieting to see road signs in German and the swastika flying in place of the Tricolore above official buildings. To see the grey and green uniforms of the Gestapo and the Wehrmacht paraded so openly. But there was no doubt the
rafles
in July and the mass deportation of Jewish families had resulted in quiet, calm streets. Life felt disciplined, everything and everyone in their rightful place. Most important, the churches were full and the synagogues empty. Paris had adapted. Parisians had adapted. Not all, but many.

He had returned to Carcassonne with a sense of what the future might hold. Almost immediately, the bad news started. Although Fournier had done what Authié asked of him, a fire at the police depot had resulted in the wanted posters for Pelletier all being destroyed. They had now been reprinted and distributed, but three valuable weeks had been lost. The result was that there had been no reports of sightings of Pelletier since July.

Authié rolled down the sleeves of his shirt, noticing there was a speck of blood on his cuff.

‘You’re telling me Bauer has suspended the dig outside Tarascon because his men refuse to continue working?’

‘Temporarily, yes,
mon capitaine
,’ Laval said. ‘They say the mountains are haunted. Bauer is waiting for new engineers to arrive from Munich.’

Authié took his jacket from the back of his chair and shrugged his arms into the sleeves.

‘It’s ridiculous.’

He glanced down at the report Fournier had given him once more, then put it in his pocket.

‘I shall be an hour, no more,’ he said.

‘Do you want me to come with you, sir?’

‘No,’ he said, raising his eyebrows. ‘A light touch is what’s needed.’

Authié left the office and walked along the boulevard Maréchal Pétain. On the opposite corner, the Palais de Justice stood impassive and grand in the afternoon sun. Quiet today. He paused a moment, realising he was pleased to be back, then continued along the boulevard in the shade of the
platanes
, turned left on to the boulevard Omer Sarraut and carried on until he arrived at the Ménard garage.

A pair of legs were sticking out from beneath the chassis of a car up on bricks. Authié walked straight to the door leading to the domestic accommodation beyond the workshop, and rapped on the glass.

Lucie heard the knock and hesitated before answering. She peered through the gap between the glass and the frame. A well-dressed man of average height, in an expensive grey suit and hat, well-cut clothes. She was sure she’d not met him before. She would have remembered.

‘Mademoiselle Ménard?’

‘Yes?’

‘May I have a few minutes of your time?’

‘Who are you?’

‘Police,’ he said.

A shiver went down her spine. ‘I need to see some identification. You could be anyone,’ she said.

He held his card up to the door, then withdrew it before Lucie could read it.

‘If I might now come in, mademoiselle,’ he said.

He did not raise his voice and his smile did not slip, but at the same time Lucie didn’t feel able to refuse. She knew she looked dreadful. Her eyes were red and her hair was a mess. She had not bothered with powder or lipstick, and she was wearing an old red cardigan over the same summer dress she’d been wearing to see Sandrine, Liesl and Marieta off.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said, touching her hair. ‘I wasn’t expecting visitors.’

He took off his hat. ‘Is there somewhere we can talk?’

Lucie glanced towards the kitchen, where her mother and a neighbour were discussing the release of their husbands from German POW camps. The train was due any day now. Whatever the man wanted, she didn’t want her mother to know about it. She pulled the door to.

‘We can talk in the workshop,’ she said.

She led him through the house to the garage at the back, slid closed the heavy door separating the house from the
atelier
, then turned round, arms crossed, feeling as if she was holding herself together. Her heart was hammering and her throat was suddenly dry. Had he come to arrest her too? Surely not like this? Not just one man?

‘Shall we sit down?’ he said, gesturing to the long wooden bench that ran along one side of the garage wall.

‘I’d rather stand, monsieur . . .’

‘Authié,’ he said. ‘Captain Authié.’

‘I’m sorry. Please make yourself at home.’

‘Thank you.’

Lucie relaxed a little. If he had come to arrest her, he wouldn’t be so polite, surely? He wouldn’t have come alone?

‘I have one or two questions I need to ask, if you don’t mind.’

I do mind, Lucie wanted to scream, I mind very much. But she kept her expression neutral, her eyes blank.

‘On Monday the thirteenth of July,’ he began, ‘you were driving past Païchérou at about ten o’clock in the morning. Is that correct?’

The words ‘before Max . . .’ came into her mind, though she didn’t speak. Everything, now, was divided into the time before Max had been arrested and the endless time since then.

‘In a blue Peugeot 202,’ he added, his eyes glancing to the far side of the workshop where the car was sitting in plain view.

‘Yes,’ she admitted.

‘I’m not in the slightest bit interested in what you were doing, Mademoiselle Ménard, or who you were with. I merely want to know the name of the girl you picked up.’

‘It was three weeks ago,’ she said.

For a moment, Lucie saw a glint of irritation in his eyes, but he quickly smothered it and continued in the same pleasant tone. She dug in her pocket and pulled out a packet of cigarettes and a box of matches. She took out a cigarette and tried to open the matches, but her hands were shaking and they spilled all over the floor. She bent down, started to try to pick them up.

Authié stepped forward with a lighter. ‘Here,’ he said, then collected the scattered matches and put them on the workbench beside her.

Lucie tried to laugh. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t know what’s got into me. I’m not sleeping very well, I . . .’ She drew on the cigarette.

‘To be clear, you were driving past Païchérou on that Monday morning and you picked up a passenger, am I right?’

‘I don’t . . . I may have done.’

‘Come now,’ he said, sounding amused.

She wrapped her arms tightly around herself, feeling the ladder of her ribs beneath the thin cotton. ‘Yes, all right, I did.’

‘And what was her name?’

She tried to shrug. ‘I didn’t ask.’

Authié raised his eyebrows. ‘You helped a girl, took her home, without ever asking her name?’

‘It wasn’t my business.’

‘All right,’ he said. ‘Can you tell me where you took her, at least?’

‘I . . . I can’t rightly remember. As I say, it was more than a fortnight ago. Nearly three weeks.’

Lucie felt herself growing red under his scrutiny. She took another drag of the cigarette, but it didn’t help. If anything, it was making her feel more sick. She hadn’t eaten today. Had very little appetite at all these days. She stubbed it out on the edge of the bench, then put the stub in her pocket.

‘You weren’t alone that day, though, were you?’ he said quietly.

Lucie felt the floor go out from under her. ‘I – I can’t remember, really I can’t.’

‘Wouldn’t you like to know where he is, Mademoiselle Ménard?’ he said softly. ‘Your friend.’

Lucie stared at him. Could this man tell her what had happened to Max? Even Suzanne had failed to find out anything. This Authié might help her. She had no status, she wasn’t a relative or his wife, they didn’t have to tell her anything.

‘Do you know where he is?’ she said in a rush, all caution forgotten. ‘I’m going out of my mind with worry and no one will tell me anything.’

Authié stared at her, then carried on as if she hadn’t spoken.

‘We have reason to believe the young lady you helped was the victim of an assault. I understand your discretion, of course I do. I applaud it. But there have been one or two attacks on women recently. Unpleasant. If she saw something, it might help us catch this man.’

Lucie’s hand stole to her stomach. What if she never found out where Max had been taken? Whether he was even still alive? In any case, what harm could it do to give him Sandrine’s name? She’d gone to the police station herself. Lucie would only be passing on information they already had.

‘She reported the attack to the police the day it happened,’ she said. ‘You must already have her details on file.’

For an instant, she thought she saw surprise flicker in the man’s eyes, though it was masked immediately.

‘It takes time for information to work its way through the system,’ Authié said casually, ‘as you can imagine. That’s why I’m here now. To speed things along.’

‘I see.’

‘As regards Monsieur Blum,’ Authié said, ‘I can make no promises, but it’s possible I could expedite matters.’ He leant back against the wooden strut of the workbench. ‘A name for a name, as it were. A fair exchange, wouldn’t you say?’

‘It’s been nearly three weeks,’ Lucie said, a catch in her voice. ‘No one will tell me anything.’

Authié spread his hands wide. ‘So, now. Are you sure you don’t remember her name?’

Lucie’s head told her not to say anything. Let Captain Authié find things out on his own. But her heart sang a different tune. Since the day of the demonstration, she’d barely slept. The instant her head touched the pillow at night, her mind was filled with images of Max handcuffed and beaten, imprisoned on a train, being sent she didn’t know where.

The worst thing of all was that she felt guilty. Guilty that she had been with Marianne and Sandrine the evening he had been arrested, had drunk too much and fallen asleep on the sofa. If she had known what had happened earlier, perhaps she would have been able to do something. Get him released. Done something, anything.

‘Mademoiselle Ménard?’

Captain Authié was offering her a chance to find out where Max had been taken. Then, at least, she could write to him. Start to try to get him home, sort out the misunderstanding.

‘Her name’s Vidal,’ she said. ‘Sandrine Vidal.’

Chapter 60

F
or a moment, the words seem to hang in the air between them.

‘A name for a name, you said,’ Lucie said desperately.

‘I am a man of my word, Mademoiselle Ménard.’

Lucie flushed. ‘Of course. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to suggest otherwise.’ She faltered. ‘Please.’

‘Blum was in a consignment of prisoners sent to Le Vernet on the fifteenth of July.’

Lucie felt the air go out of her. She dropped her hand to the bench to steady herself. Of all the camps, she’d heard Le Vernet was the most notorious.

‘His papers are in order,’ she said in a hollow voice. ‘Why was he arrested?’

‘The details are not clear.’

‘But what am I going to do?’ she cried. ‘Really, I can’t bear it.’

Authié looked at her. ‘If Monsieur Blum has done nothing and his papers are in order, then he has nothing to fear. You, Mademoiselle Ménard, have nothing to fear.’

‘If that was true, I—’

‘It’s even possible I could arrange for you to see him.’

Colour flooded Lucie’s pale face. ‘Oh . . .’

‘In return for a little help, Mademoiselle Ménard.’

‘But I told you Sandrine’s name.’

‘I would like to speak to Mademoiselle Vidal,’ he continued smoothly. ‘We have her address on file, of course, as you said. But if you know it, that would be a great help. Speed everything up.’

‘Rue du Palais,’ she said. ‘She lives with her sister and housekeeper. The house with coloured tiles.’

Again the words – Judas words – seemed to hover in the air.

‘You see?’ he said pleasantly. ‘That wasn’t so hard, was it?’

‘What about Max?’ she said quickly. ‘Can you arrange for me to see him?’

Authié put on his hat. ‘I shall look into the situation. I’ll be in touch if there is any news.’

‘When will that be?’ she said, desperate not to let him go until she had an answer.

He pulled open the sliding doors. ‘Thank you for your help, mademoiselle. I’ll see myself out.’

Lucie listened to his footsteps echoing down the corridor, then the sound of the front door opening and closing. She slumped down against the bench. She felt hollow and weak, but for the first time in three weeks, there was hope.

She took the stub of the cigarette from her pocket and managed to strike and hold the match. This time, it calmed her beating heart. She kept telling herself she’d done nothing wrong.

He had Sandrine’s name already. He only had to check the files.

Lucie thought for a moment more, then went into the house to the telephone. She should at least tell Marianne what had happened. She’d not seen much of her or Suzanne since Sandrine left. She’d not visited the rue du Palais.

She dialled the number. The line was busy. Lucie shut her eyes and tried to picture Max’s face. Captain Authié hadn’t come flanked by officers or threatened her. And he could help Max. He had promised. Almost promised, at least.

‘A name for a name,’ she murmured, dialling again.

This time, the number rang, but nobody answered. If she couldn’t get through, she’d have to go to the rue du Palais in person. She didn’t want to. Marianne would be impatient and high-minded. She always was. She wouldn’t understand how finding Max had to take priority over everything else. And it was so hot and she felt so unwell.