Darkest Longings (69 page)

required, Helber hadn’t trusted him. And Helber’s instincts

were right, because the day would come when he would carry out the threat he had made. Even now, even in here, he thought of Elise’s injuries incensed him beyond words.

Outside in the corridor, at a distance from the room

where Francois was being held, von Liebermann was

talking quietly with Bruning.

‘It is hardly surprising that he continues to deny it,’ he

wheezed, still breathless from his climb up the stairs. ‘No

one in the world knows why the Fuihrer took that decision,

least of all de Lorvoire. But we have to make a show. How is

he bearing up?’

‘Any other man would be close to death by now,’ Bruning

answered. ‘The only thing de Lorvoire has come close to is

unconsciousness.’

Von Liebermann scratched the warts on his chin. ‘I did

not go to all this effort so that he could be used as a

scapegoat for …’ He stopped before the treasonous words

were spoken. ‘Everyone knows there can be no confession,

and I have plans for de Lorvoire that require his health. So, I

am ordering you to leave him be for a while. I will speak with

Herr Himmler and see what can be done. How long, in your

estimation, will it take for his wounds to heal?’

‘If it was any other man,’ Bruning said with a smirk, ‘I

should say six months, possibly more. As it is de Lorvoire,

three months.’

Von Liebermann nodded thoughtfully. ‘That will take us

into the New Year.’ Annoyance flashed in his eyes. ‘We might have had him sooner if the Luftwaffe’s defeat in the sky battle hadn’t been presented as a direct result of halting our troops for those damned three days. Why, oh why, did I introduce him to the Fuihrer? If I hadn’t, someone else’s neck would be on the block and we wouldn’t be here now,

wasting our time. And if you repeat one word of that, Bruning, I’ll have your tongue cut out.’

Bruning saluted. ‘Yes, sir.’

Von Liebermann chuckled. His Komitee were loyal, but it

amused him to make that kind of threat. ‘Get a doctor to de

Lorvoire,’ he said, starting back towards the stairs and

gesturing to Bruning to follow, ‘and keep me abreast of his

progress. In the meantime, I have something of a more

personal nature to discuss with you concerning de Lorvoire.

I have heard from Fritz Blomberg. He has, as we instructed,

made contact with Halunke.’

‘Ah! And how is our friend Halunke?’

‘Worried. He believes that de Lorvoire’s courier is

getting a little too close for comfort. It would appear von

Pappen has been asking questions of the right people, and is

presumably coming up with the right answers. Naturally, I

share Halunke’s concern. It would be most inconvenient if

his identity were to be discovered now. Fortunately he is not

planning a Blitzkrieg on de Lorvoire’s family because de

Lorvoire is not mere to witness it - which, as we know, is something our friend Halunke prefers. Even so, his next subject, I believe, will be the vigneron.’

Both men laughed. ‘It will shake de Lorvoire considerably

when his wife’s protector is slaughtered,’ von Liebermann

continued. ‘He will really feel the net beginning to

close then, and that will give us even greater leverage on

him.’ Again he laughed, and clapped Bruning on the

shoulder as they reached the bottom of the staircase. ‘I do

hope I can obtain de Lorvoire’s release soon; I’m looking

forward to the time when those two men are forced to pit their skills against one another. It will be a most interesting spectacle, don’t you agree?’

“You are intending to send de Lorvoire back to France?’

Bruning said, surprised.

‘Most certainly.’

‘But how will that serve us?’

‘All in good time, Walter. All in good time.’

‘And the courier? Are we going to do something about him?’

‘I’m giving the matter some thought,’ von Liebermann

answered.

Two junior officers helped them into their coats, then

they went out into the biting wind that swept through the

bleak grounds of Belsen concentration camp.

‘Incidentally,’ Bruning said, as they approached von

Liebermann’s Mercedes, ‘has de Lorvoire’s wife succumbed

to Blomberg yet?’

‘I have no idea, Walter. Blomberg’s designs on the

Comtesse’s honour are of no interest to me. However, he

did have a rather interesting encounter with Elise Pascale

when passing through Paris a while ago.’

‘Oh?’

‘I will let Max tell you. He’s waiting in the car. It is most

amusing, my friend. Most amusing.’

Beatrice Baptiste, Elise’s ‘nursemaid’, knew only too well

what was going on in the sitting-room now that the voices

had stopped. Nevertheless she stole a quick look round the

door to reassure herself that no harm had come to her

charge. Everything was as she had expected. The two

Abwehr officers whose chauffeur had driven them over

from their headquarters on the avenue de l’Opeia for the

third time that week, were seated side by side on the sofa,

and Elise, comme d’habitude, was on her knees in front of them, providing them with oral stimulation.

Beatrice closed the door quietly, and sat down on a chair

to wait. Today Elise was playing the part of Agnes Sorel, the

mistress of King Charles VII. The last time she had been

Diane de Poitiers, mistress of King Henry II, and the time

before that she had been the most famous of all French

mistresses, Jeanne, Marquise de Pompadour. She had had

clothes made up to suit each part, which was how Beatrice

could tell that she was Agnes Sorel today: the only portrait

they had been able to find of Agnes was one in which her

bodice was unlaced and her left breast revealed. Elise had

been delighted when she saw it was the left breast, for she

would never have been able to show her right one; the nipple

had been severed by Halunke’s knife.

Beatrice and Erich had decided some time ago that they

should allow Elise to do as she pleased with her German

visitors. Erich had been against it at first, not only because of

what Francois might say, but because he couldn’t begin to

understand why Elise should want to do it. But Beatrice had

understood. Elise needed to know that she still had the

power not only to arouse a man, but to satisfy him too. If she

couldn’t do that, she had wept when explaining it to

Beatrice, then she might as well be dead. She had gone on to

tell Beatrice how, even as a child, she had idolized the

powerful courtesans of the French court. She had modelled

herself on them for so long, Beatrice realized, that now, in

the troubled recesses of her poor, deranged mind, she had

become them - all of them. Naturally, Francois was the

monarch at whose throne she knelt, and like the concubines

of old she continued her scheming and conniving to gain

what she wanted. Which was, of course, to become his

queen.

Madame la Comtesse had little to fear from her, though, for

Beatrice never let Elise out of her sight. And as for the

German officers Elise was rewarding for their part in her

conspiracy to kill Claudine, it was evident that they didn’t

know what she was talking about, and didn’t care either. But Elise, poor, tortured, lonely Elise, knew such a sense of purpose to her life again now that, just as Beatrice had

hoped, the nightmares and visions had begun to subside.

‘It’s tomorrow!’ Elise hissed, half an hour later as

Beatrice closed the door behind the Germans. ‘We’re going

to kill her tomorrow!’

Beatrice smiled. She had heard it a hundred times before.

Tucking Elise’s breast back into the bodice of her dress, she

led her into the sitting-room.

For several minutes she listened as Elise told her, in

frenzied detail, what she had discussed with the Germans. It

was obvious that she had forgotten precisely what she was

talking about. Then at last the glassy look came into her

eyes, signalling an imminent return to sanity.

‘I know they’re laughing at me, Beatrice,’ she said, her

long skirts sweeping across the floor as she limped to the

window. ‘But I have to do it. You understand that, don’t

you?’

‘Yes, I understand, cherie?

‘But will Francois?’ She turned to look at Beatrice, and

Beatrice’s heart turned over at the haunted, childlike look in

her eyes. ‘Has there been any word from him?’

Beatrice shook her head.

After a while Elise smiled and said, ‘There will be, soon.’

Then her face darkened. ‘Has Erich found out who

Halunke is yet?’ And fully expecting Beatrice to say no, she

turned to gaze out of the window. But when Beatrice’s soft

voice answered in the affirmative, Elise’s eyes dilated and

she turned back again.

‘What!’ she gasped. ‘Why didn’t you tell me before? Who?

Who is it?’

‘He won’t tell me,’ Beatrice said apologetically. ‘He says

that…’

‘No, I don’t believe you,’ Elise said, shaking her head

rapidly from side to side. ‘If he knew he would have told you,

I know he would, and I have a right to know, Beatrice.’

‘I won’t deny that, Elise, but I swear it’s the truth. I don’t

know who Halunke is.’ She sighed. ‘I’ve already gone too far

in telling you this much. It was only that I wanted you to

know that he’ll be caught soon. But until Erich has actual proof, and until he talks to Francois, he’s refusing even to tell me.’

Erich von Pappen was sitting in his shabby studio room in

the Residence Domance on the Left Bank, staring down at

the papers in front of him. His eyes were sore from lack of

sleep and his fingers stained with nicotine. He had been

over it time and time again, sifting through lists of names

and dates until his head ached and his vision blurred, but

always the result was the same. And he knew he now had

finally to admit that he was never going to come up with the

answer.

He gazed despondently down at the single sheet of paper

he had placed on top of the pile. There was no longer any

doubt that Halunke’s true identity belonged to one of the

two men whose names were written on it. He gained no

satisfaction from knowing that he had been right to think

Hortense de Bourchain’s murder was at the root of it, but if

he lived to reach a hundred he would never understand why

either man should feel the need to seek such bitter revenge.

Francois would not understand it either; von Pappen knew

that he had never for a moment considered that Halunke

was a man as close to him as this.

He stood up, walked over to the bed and sat down with his

head in his hands. He knew now that Francois was being

held in Belsen. He also knew that he would be returning to

France within a month - his source inside the Abwehr had

given him the information a week ago. The question was,

how the hell was he going to tell Francois about Halunke?

And what the hell was Francois going to do when he found out that the man who had butchered Elise, who had killed his father, who had driven him into the hands of the Abwehr, and who could even now be threatening the lives of his wife and son, was either his brother, Lucien de Lorvoire, or his vigneron, Armand St Jacques?

Everything fitted for both men, the dates, the times, the

places. The only thing he could not get straight was motive.

Lucien had been Hortense de Bourchain’s lover, and Armand had witnessed Francois killing her. But why in God’s name would Lucien kill his own father? And why

should Hortense’s death matter to Armand? But there could

no longer be any doubt. At the time Elise was attacked,

Lucien was in Paris and Armand, von Pappen had since

discovered, was absent from Lorvoire. At the time Louis

died, both men were at Lorvoire. And every time Claudine

had experienced that extraordinary sense of being spied on,

Lucien had been absent from his regiment and Armand had

been there in the forest with her.

Von Pappen glanced at the window and saw that it was

beginning to get dark. He heard the dull clatter of wooden

shoes on the cobbles as the people of Montparnasse hurried

to get home before curfew. Knowing that very soon now the concierge would go outside to check that there was no light escaping from the Residence windows, he got up to close

the shutters and pull the heavy black drapes. The power had been off all day; he struck a match and lit both a candle and a cigarette.

He didn’t hear the footsteps on the stairs, or the bare boards creaking on the landing outside. Even if he had, he would have presumed they belonged to one of his neighbours.

He drew deeply on his cigarette and asked himself for the thousandth time where Lucien de Lorvoire was now.

The door handle behind him started to turn. Unaware of

it, his mind moved to Armand St Jacques, the man Francois

had allowed to have an affair with his wife in order that he

should protect her. Which of these two hated Francois so

much that they could do this to him? Which one of them was

Halunke?

Von Pappen felt a cold draught blow into the room. It

unsettled the curtains and made him shiver. Then he