In Farleigh Field: A Novel of World War II

“But he’s Jewish and Austrian. He fled from the Nazis.”

“So he says.” Alfie grinned again. “But I’ll do my best. I tell you who I think might be right dodgy—Baxters the builders—have you noticed the gates to their yard are always shut, and the fence is so high you can’t see in?”

“Probably so no one can sneak in and steal their supplies,” Phoebe said.

“Yeah, but it’s more than that,” Alfie said. “I watched Baxter’s van drive out the other day. And someone closed the gate the moment the van went through, and young Mr. Baxter was driving and he saw me standing there and he shouted, “What are you staring at? Go on, hop it.”

“So you’ll do some snooping on the Baxters’ yard? Excellent,” Phoebe said. “We’ll get to the bottom of this mystery, you’ll see, Alfie. We’ll surprise them all.”





CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE


Paris


Margot sat in the window at the Ritz hotel and stared out at the street. Her finger still throbbed and welled blood, but it was the other hurt that was more painful. That woman. That is what he had called her. He had looked at her with no emotion on his face at all. She was not his beloved. He didn’t care for her at all. She had risked her life by staying on in Paris when she could have been safely at home. And she had never had any chance of saving him. The Germans had been using her, pushing her into a position where she would agree to do their bidding, all for nothing.

What a fool I’ve been, she thought. She might be going home, but only to aid the enemy. If she didn’t, then someone on the spot would surely kill either her or a member of her family. Now that she had actually seen them in action, she was sure that they would have no qualms about dispatching her. She didn’t yet know what her assignment would be, but it would presumably have something to do with the fact that she was an aristocrat, that she mixed in the highest circles. She shivered and held her wounded hand up to her breast.

“I must commend you,” Herr Dinkslager had said as they drove away from Gestapo headquarters on Avenue Foch. “You were very brave. Exactly what I would have expected from one of England’s oldest families. I must apologise about your finger. I think you’ll find there is no lasting damage. I’m sure you must realise that it was a necessity.”

She had said nothing but stared out the window.

“You’ll need some training first,” Herr Dinkslager said. “So, for the moment, I think we’ll leave you at the Ritz. Might as well make the most of the good food and wine, eh?”

He was chatting with her again as if they had been for a drive in the country—not like he had just rammed a wedge under her fingernail. He had been prepared to do the same to the rest of her fingers, and to let the young soldier rape her if he thought it might have achieved results. What kind of man can act like that? she wondered. To behave with a fa?ade of civilisation, yet calmly torture and kill. Does he never think about his wife, his children, his sisters at home, and imagine such horrors happening to them?

They pulled up in front of the Ritz, and he escorted her inside. Gigi Armande’s suite was unoccupied. “I’ll have someone come up with a bandage for that finger,” he said. “And I’ll arrange for your training to begin tomorrow.”

Now she sat there alone, a prisoner, waiting for doom to fall. There must be something I can do, she thought. A way out over the roof, through the servants’ quarters. A ridiculous thought came to her: What if I just opened the door and walked down the hall, down the stairs and to freedom? She crossed the room and opened the door. At the sound, a German soldier standing guard by the stairs turned to stare at her. Not that way then.

She toyed with another thought. She could request something from room service. If a woman delivered it, she could overpower her, tie her up, steal her uniform, and escape that way. The idea was intriguing, but she took it one stage further. If that person struggled and fought back, could she kill her if necessary? Margot shuddered. Killing was different from tying up. But she couldn’t just sit here. She picked up the telephone and found that it was dead. At that moment, Gigi Armande walked in. Margot looked up like a guilty child.

“I was trying to order a glass of wine,” she said.

Armande smiled. “There is a little man at the front desk who switches on the telephone when he sees me, for security’s sake. Now, what was it you wanted?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Margot said, moving away.

“But of course it does. I heard something about the little incident this afternoon. Did you have a cognac? So good for steadying the nerves.” Margot shook her head. “But they took care of your poor hand?” She saw the bandage. “So uncivilised of them. I’ll tell Spatzi—I mean Herr Dinkslager, when I talk to him next. That is not the way he behaves with my protégées, not if he wants a new frock for his wife.”

She came across and picked up Margot’s bandaged finger. “You must do what they say, ma chérie. We have to play along with them if we want to survive. I gather they want to send you home. Please don’t be noble. Do what they ask, and you’ll be safe and with your family.”

Margot nodded. She had a horrible feeling that she might break down and cry if she opened her mouth to speak. Madame Armande being kind to her was a last straw when she had been at the breaking point for hours.

Armande picked up the phone and calmly ordered smoked salmon, a bottle of Chablis, and a large cognac. Then she replaced the receiver and smiled at Margot. “All will be well,” she said.

“How can it?” Margot said bleakly.

Armande came over and put an arm around Margot’s shoulder. “He is very noble, that Gaston of yours. A credit to France.”

“What do you mean?” Margot looked up sharply. “He let them torture me. Do you call that noble?”

Armande smiled. “He will not betray the Resistance, whatever happens. I heard what he said about you. That you were nothing to him. I know men, ma chérie. I have been with a great many men. He was making sure they left you alone.”

“Making sure?” Margot said angrily. “He said they could chop me into little pieces for all he cared.”

“But, naturally.” Armande gave that very Gallic shrug. “Don’t you see? That was the only way to let you go. If he did not care one iota about you, then torturing you could have no effect on him. And it also had an added benefit in that it made you agree to do what the German schemers wanted. Now you will be their puppet.”

Margot looked up at her suspiciously. “You seem to know an awful lot. You’re working secretly with them, I suppose?”

“Darling, I don’t work with anybody,” Armande said. “But I am Spatzi’s mistress, as I’m sure you’ve guessed by now. How else do you think I live at the Ritz and come and go as I please? And yes, I confess I was part of that little drama when you were first brought in. But only because I cared about you and wanted you to stay alive.”