In Farleigh Field: A Novel of World War II

“Don’t bother to tidy up,” Armande said impatiently. She looked up at Margot. “I don’t think you quite realise it yet, but you are in serious trouble, chérie. You are officially under arrest by the Germans. At any moment they could drag you back to that building and down to the basement where one hears about unspeakable things going on.”

Her expression softened. “You have to learn to play along with them, chérie. I have, and I still live at the Ritz. Pretend to do what they want. Pretend to sympathise. They are far from home, and the sympathetic ear of a beautiful woman is much appreciated. If they want you to do something for them in England, then seem to be interested, seem to be considering it.”

“But I couldn’t,” Margot said.

“Not to save your lover’s life?”

Margot hesitated. “I don’t see how I could put Gaston before my country. Besides, how could I have any reason to trust their word? I could carry out whatever despicable act they want me to do, and then they’d shoot Gaston anyway. They have not shown themselves to be particularly trustworthy.”

“I think I could get certain powerful officers to have Gaston taken to a neutral country.”

“Unless he’s already dead,” Margot said bitterly.

“Of course.” Armande waved a gloved hand. “But one has to do what one can. You do want to save his life, don’t you? He hasn’t become boring to you?”

“Of course I want to save his life,” Margot said hotly, “but I can’t put my lover ahead of my country.”

Armande sighed. “So noble, and so na?ve. Learn to be a pragmatist, my dear, if you want to survive. It’s always worked for me.” She shifted impatiently, recrossing her legs clad in real silk stockings. “Now hurry up, do. There’s a good girl.”

“There are foodstuffs in the kitchen,” Margot said. “What should I do with them? Vegetables, cheese. They’ll spoil. One can’t waste food in the current situation.”

“Give them to that horrible old woman downstairs. She’ll love you forever.” Armande waved a hand again.

Margot went into the kitchen and was depressed by the small amount of food that was there. A quarter of a cabbage, two onions, a potato, and a square of hard cheese. Rations in Paris were now down to the bare minimum, and one snapped up whatever was going at the market. Still, the concierge would be glad of them, and she might get a chance to pass her a quick message. She put them into a string bag, then added half a bottle of cheap wine and the remains of yesterday’s bread. Since she couldn’t carry the rest of the milk in the jug, she picked it up and drank it, rinsing the jug out in the sink. If there was no food in the house, then Gaston or one of his friends would know she wasn’t here. She was trying hard to think of a way to tell him where she was going, where someone could find her. Not that she could think of anyone who might help her at this moment. If they had Gaston, then all was lost. She hadn’t allowed herself to think about it before, but now tears welled up. She blinked them back hurriedly.

She went through into the bedroom.

“My trunk is in the attic,” she called to Armande.

“You’re not going on a cruise, my darling,” Armande said. “You need a few items. You can probably come back here if necessary at some point.”

So Margot instead reached for the small suitcase on top of the wardrobe. It was the one her father had given her for her twenty-first. It still smelled of good English leather when she opened it, reminding her of saddles and the tack room at Farleigh. Into it she tossed some underwear, a cashmere cardigan, a pair of slacks, a change of stockings, another blouse, and a cotton dress. She was wearing her sensible shoes. There would be no need for heels. And she had to save enough room for toiletries.

As she approached her dressing table, she saw Armande’s card with the words “CALL HER” written in lipstick. It wasn’t where she had left it, and she realised that the apartment had already been searched. How lucky that the message had been so innocent. Of course, she would want friends to call her employer. She left it where it lay.

“Are you ready yet?” Armande asked.

“I need to put some toiletries together.”

“My dear. Do you not think I have every kind of soap and bath salt at my place for you to use? Throw in your makeup, your toothbrush, and a face flannel, and that will be that.”

“I need to spend a penny first,” Margot said. “I have not been allowed to use the bathroom since I was dragged from my bed in the middle of the night.”

“Very well,” Armande said, “but hurry up. That German driver will find it suspicious if we are too long. Everything you do will be reported back.”

Margot went into the bathroom and hurriedly stashed things into her toilet bag—her toothbrush and tooth powder, her headache powders, a clean face flannel, vanishing cream. The absurdity of this struck her—that she would want her face to look perfect if she were about to be tortured or killed. Then she relieved the call of nature. When she had finished, she turned the tap on and left it running while she tipped up the bidet and pulled back a tile beneath it. It was lucky that they had equipped her with the smaller of the two radios. This one only had a range of five hundred miles, but it was compact enough to fit into a briefcase, or under the bidet.

She stared at it, wondering what to do next. There was no better hiding place for it. If they really stripped the apartment, they would find it. And she had no way of using it with Armande in the next room. She would have to be patient. If she seemed to be compliant and willing, maybe they would let her come back here for something she had forgotten. She removed the headache powders from the toilet bag and left them on the shelf. Then she tipped the bidet back to its proper position and turned off the tap.

“Mon Dieu, you really did need to go,” Armande commented with a chuckle.

“I really did. I thought I’d burst when I was sitting on that chair for hours, waiting for them to come and interrogate me.” A thought came to her. “I don’t suppose I could have a quick shower?” It was quite a loud shower, but she wasn’t sure it was loud enough to drown out the noise of Morse code being sent over a radio.

“My dear, you can luxuriate in a bath at the Ritz as soon as we get there. Oodles of hot water. Divine.”

Margot tried to put on a pleased and excited face. She put the sponge bag into her suitcase and closed it.

“That should be enough to keep me going for a few days,” she said.

“A few days may be all you’ll need,” Armande said.

Margot didn’t want to ask whether this meant she’d be released by that time, or she’d be in prison or dead. She picked up her suitcase and made for the half-open door.

“Ready when you are,” she said.





CHAPTER SIXTEEN


Dolphin Square, London



Joan Miller, Maxwell Knight’s secretary and right-hand woman, knocked and entered his inner sanctum with a grave and puzzled look on her face.

“We’ve just had a message, sir. From the Duke of Westminster.”

“Oh yes? What did he want?”

“He has just been contacted by Madame Armande.”