Cross of Fire (47 page)

'Isabelle, you have a key to the apartment in Bordeaux?' he asked casually.

'Of course. It's in the drawer of that escritoire.'

'Mind if I borrow it for a few hours?'

'Why?'
Her eyes blazed with anxiety. 'What are you up
to now?'

'Fetch me the key and I'll tell you.'

'I'm coming with you.'

She threw the remark over her shoulder as she jumped
up and ran to the drawer. Newman was thinking it was
fortunate he'd warned Moshe Stein he might be a while
before he picked him up at the hotel - even more fortunate that Moshe had loaned him the hired
Renault. Isabelle came
back, holding the key in her hand behind her back. She
knelt in front of Newman.

'You can't have the key until you tell me why you need
it.'

'To get hold of Henri's note book. We need to know
where to look before we go.'

She took his statement as agreement that she could come
with him. She explained exactly which drawer in the bedroom contained the notebook, buried deep among her
underclothes. Newman nodded, leaned forward, pulled her
towards him. She came willingly as he hugged her, reaching
one hand behind her shapely back. She kissed him greedily, felt to be devouring his mouth. His right hand grasped hers, forced the fingers apart, felt metal, took the key.

She wrenched herself free, a flaming fury. Standing up she looked down at him.

'You tricked me! Damn you! You're going by yourself.'

'Supposing we went together,' Newman said calmly,
pocketing the key. 'The apartment may still be watched.
You come with me. Half my attention is concentrated
on protecting you, making sure no harm comes to you.
When all my attention should be concentrated on guarding myself. Taking care of you, we could both get killed. My
chance of survival is enormously increased if I'm on my
own.'

She stood with her arms folded. Her flash of rage had
subsided. Newman was counting on her intelligence to
grasp the sense of his argument. She smiled suddenly.

'I do understand, Bob. I liked your use of the word
"protecting". You realize that is the back door key?'

'I was going to ask you that. Much easier to slip in and
out that way.'

'And you'll be coming back here afterwards?'

'Your mother has a key to the Bordeaux apartment?'

'Yes...' The word was out of her mouth before she
realized the implications of what he'd said. 'You mean you won't be coming back here? Then how will I know you are
safe? I
must
know that, Bob.'

'I'll phone you when I can. Can't promise when that will
be, but I can promise I'll phone.' He hesitated, knowing the
next topic could be sensitive. 'Isabelle, an important girl
who works for another man may come to see you...'

'Important to you?' Her eyes gleamed.

'I've just told you, she works for someone else - a man
who is a close ally of mine. Her name is Paula. She'll identify
herself by using the phrase Gruyere cheese.'

'I will look after her,' Isabelle promised, mollified to some extent.

Newman wondered what would happen if the strong-
minded Paula did meet the equally strong-willed Isabelle.
Maybe it hadn't been too good an idea giving Paula the French
girl's address and phone number back in London.
Too late now. He stood up.

'Would you by any chance have a few empty bottles?
Wine, whatever?'

'It just happens that I was about to throw out a whole collection of empty mineral water bottles. I drink a lot of mineral water.' She looped her arm through his. 'I'm a thirsty soul - and not only for you. They're in the kitchen.'

They walked through a swing door and Newman noted
everything was spotless, well organized, in the kitchen, which had a pleasant light blue colour scheme for the
cupboards and working surfaces. Isabelle opened a
cupboard, dragged out a strong plastic bag.

'There are twenty inside here - empty but with the caps on. I know, I counted as I dumped them. I do things like that. What are you looking at?'

On a shelf were stacked a series of aluminium funnels. Newman picked up a funnel, dived into the bag as she held it open for him, took out a bottle, removed the cap, inserted the end of the funnel. It fitted inside the neck of the bottle
perfectly.

'Could I have this too? Unless it's your favourite?' he
asked.

'Funny man.' She smiled. 'Drop it inside the bag. You are
most welcome...'

He hugged her before he left, had trouble disentangling himself from her octopus-like embrace, walked through the deserted streets to where he'd parked the Renault, hid the plastic sack under a travelling rug in the back. He was driving slowly through Arcachon when he thought he recognized a lone French officer in uniform. The beams played over him for only seconds, then the solitary man merged with the shadows. Despite the uniform, the képi pulled well down over the forehead, Newman could have sworn he'd just seen Lieutenant Berthier.

Something about the way he held himself, moved. Newman recalled his encounter in the lobby of the Brudenell -when the man posing as James Sanders, salesman of marine spare parts, had stubbed his toe and muttered
Merde!
It was
an added worry as he drove out of Arcachon along the
N650 to Bordeaux.

The first thing Newman noticed on entering the centre of the city was that there were far more troops in uniform walking in groups. Even at this late hour. He had decided
to drive to the Bar Miami where Henri Bayle had been kidnapped by the phoney DST men before being murdered.

He knew the address from something Isabelle had told him on his previous visit. Doubtful whether the bar would
still be open at this time of night, he parked close to it,
walked the rest of the way.

Newman was confident that in his French clothes, his
beret worn at a jaunty angle, he would pass unnoticed
among the few couples hurrying to get out of the cold. The
Bar Miami was still open.

He walked inside slowly, staring round to check whether there were any French officers among the patrons. They appeared to be mostly civilians - the hardened drinkers still
clustered at a few tables. The head barman, described by
Isabelle, was polishing the counter.

'Pernod.' Newman ordered.

'We'll be closing soon,' the heavy-set barman said as he took the money.

'Isabelle Thomas.' Newman whispered. 'Can't find her at her apartment. We're like that.' He showed two fingers entwined, winked. 'Any idea where she could have gone?'

The barman was about to shrug: Newman sensed the
beginning of the negative gesture. Then the barman saw the
two hundred-franc notes peering out from between New
man's fingers. His hand polishing the bar moved more
slowly, he took a swift look round, leaned forward.

'I can't give you an exact address.'

'A location would help. Somewhere to start.'

'The other...' The barman stopped in mid-sentence and mentally Newman completed what he'd been on the verge of saying.
The other man said almost the same thing ...
He couldn't take his eyes off the banknotes just out of his reach.

'Arcachon.' he whispered. 'That's the best I can do.'

'I need to know how
you
know that.' Newman persisted.

'The girl was in here some time ago - with her boy
friend. The one who got mugged down at Gare St Jean. I
heard him tell her he'd visit her when she was in Arcachon.
That's it.'

'Somewhere to start.' Newman repeated.

With a sleight of hand he passed over the banknotes. The
barman began polishing furiously as though regretting his
indiscretion. Newman drank his Pernod, left the bar, hurried to his car.

He sat behind the wheel with the engine running for a
few minutes. The news was the worst possible. If the barman would betray Isabelle to him, a stranger, for a handful
of banknotes, then he'd clearly done the same before. It looked very much as though Isabelle was being traced by
de Forge's men. And he couldn't get out of his mind the
instinct that it
was
Berthier he'd seen in his headlights. He'd have to warn her at the earliest possible moment.

But the next job was to try and recover Bayle's - Francis
Carey's - notebook. He drove away as men began to drift
out of the Bar Miami. From now on he had to be careful.

Chapter Thirty-One

Newman drove slowly as he came close to the apartment
building. He planned to park the Renault in a side street
about a hundred yards beyond the alley where he'd parked
during his visit with Isabelle. Far enough away not to arouse
the suspicion of any watchers; close enough to run for it if he had to.

The street was fairly deserted. It was dark except for the
glow from an illuminated shop window opposite the
entrance to the apartment block and the murky glimmer of the street lights.

No one lingered outside the entrance but a group of men in heavy overcoats were crouched on the pavement outside
the illuminated shop. They were playing some game with
dice. In this bitter cold? As he cruised past them he glanced at the motley gathering. Inwardly he stiffened but he maintained the same speed.

A hundred yards or so beyond them he turned left into a
narrow cobbled side street, parked with two wheels on the sidewalk. Grim-faced, he sat behind the wheel, his engine
still running.

One of the group of dice-players had looked up as he'd passed them. Clad in his old heavy overcoat, collar turned
up, the man also wore a fur hat. For a brief second Newman had had a clear view of the face beneath the hat. A face he'd seen before in a photograph.

An evil, grinning face. Like a gnome. A dangerous gnome. Sergeant Rey of the Third Corps. De Forge's booby-trap genius. A man rumoured to carry far more clout than his rank of sergeant would suggest.

So why was he sitting crouched on the pavement
opposite the apartment block in the freezing cold night? And grinning? As though in anticipation of some pro
fessional delight.

Newman adopted a slouching walk as he left the side
street and moved towards the alley with the back entrance.
A few couples also slouched along the street, huddled
together, even pausing for an embrace.

Newman was recalling something Isabelle had told him. The staircase they had come down from her mother's first-
floor apartment - the staircase down which the two fake
DST men who tried to attack Isabelle had ended up dead -
led only to her mother's apartment, which was peculiar. Round the back another rear staircase led to the other
apartments.

So anyone investigating that staircase by picking the lock
would realize the same fact. Someone like Sergeant Rey. Expert at rigging up boobytraps.