At last he turned to look up at Helber, almost paralysing
him with his terrible eyes. Helber could feel the hatred as
though it were twisting round his neck. After a while
Francois spoke. ‘You say my brother was arrested too?’
‘And your vigneron.’
Francois turned to stare sightlessly at the bed where his
luggage was piled ready for his departure. Then, in his deep
steady voice he said, ‘It’s one of them isn’t it?’
Helber nodded.
There was a long, asphyxiating silence. ‘How do I know I
can trust you?’ Francois said.
‘You have no choice,’ Helber answered. ‘But I give you
my word I will tell you.’
Francois threw him a look of such violent loathing that
Helber’s pulsating erection momentarily lost its urgency.
‘And if I tell you that I am not prepared to do what you want,
you will remind me that you are holding my wife?’
Helber only looked at him.
Francois stood up, towering monstrously over Helber’s
plump little body. ‘Then we’d best get on with it,’ he said,
and turned to pull the curtains, shutting the daylight from
the room.
Twenty minutes later Francois emerged, fully clothed,
from the bathroom. His face was strained, his mouth
compressed with loathing. Helber was sitting on the edge of the tousled bed, still naked, and to Francois’ unutterable
disgust the man’s flabby penis started to respond to his
presence. His eyes bored into Helber’s, and Helber knew
that if de Lorvoire’s wife had not been in captivity, his
genitals would have undergone a very different experience
from the one they just had. As it was the ravishment of
Francois de Lorvoire’s body, inanimate as it had remained
throughout, had surpassed all expectation. Helber’s only
regret was that it would never happen again.
Francois picked up his luggage and moved it to the door.
He wasn’t sure why von Liebermann, using Helber as his
messenger, had decided to tell him now who Halunke was,
but he could guess. He had long outlived his usefulness to
the Abwehr, so the execution order he had been expecting
must have arrived. Which could only mean that von
Liebermann wanted to bring Halunke’s revenge to its
climax.
He turned to face Helber. Helber looked up at him, and
every cell in Francois’ body suddenly recoiled from hearing
the word Helber was about to speak. It was unthinkable that
Halunke should be either of them, but worst of all was that it
should be Lucien. Why should he, why should either of
them, feel the need to exact such a terrible revenge? What in
God’s name had he done?
Then, from the darkest corner of his mind, a terrible
flame of suspicion suddenly roared like the inferno of hell. It
was as though Erich von Pappen were standing there in the
room with him, telling him that it was all because of
Hortense de Bourchain’s death. And if that was true… But
it couldn’t be! Lucien could not possibly have inflicted the
kind of mutilation Elise had suffered; he could never have
gunned von Pappen down in cold blood, terrorized his own
family - killed his own father.
But he had, Helber had just confirmed it.
- 32
Blomberg was contemplating a map of Touraine, propped
on an easel in front of him, when Hans knocked on his office
door. Scowling, Blomberg barked admittance, but when he
saw who was standing on the threshold his face visibly
brightened. ‘Ah, Madame la Comtesse,’ he said, ‘come in.
Thank you, Hans, you may go.’
Claudine took a few paces into the room and stopped.
The only colour in her face, apart from the caked blood and
dirt along her hairline, was the blueish-black of the swelling
over her left eye, where the German soldier had hit her with
the butt of his rifle the night she was captured. Her jacket
had been taken away from her before she entered the room,
and now she wore only her jodhpurs, boots and a thick
sweater. She smelt dirty and stale, and her hair fell in matted
strands about her shoulders.
Blomberg walked to his desk and sat down, not taking his
eyes off her for a moment. Beneath her feet, sunlight
dappled the thick blue carpet, and particles of dust floated in
the rays that streamed across her body. The room was long
and airy, and the tall windows behind her looked out onto
gardens which sloped in tiers down to the River Indre.
Claudine knew where she was; they had driven through
the outskirts of Montbazon to get here. Of course she might
have guessed, when they’d come to get her from her cell an
hour ago, that they were bringing her here - to the Chateau
d’Artigny, to Blomberg - but weary and worn down as she
was, she hadn’t really cared where they were taking her.
She had lain awake all the previous night, too numb to
think beyond the gnawing pangs of her hunger. Just before
five in the afternoon they had come to take Armand from his
cell. Schmidt had been with her then, giving her the chance,
right up to the last, to change her mind and talk. But she had
remained silent, still not for one minute believing that any of
it was real.
The firing squad had assembled in the yard above her
cell, so she had heard every command, every footstep - and
every shot. She was too tired even to be amused by the
lengths they were going to to convince her that Armand was
paying the price of her silence. Though the gunfire, when it
came, had shaken her. But not enough to shatter her
resolve, and when Schmidt finally left her he had told her
not to make the mistake of believing her ordeal was over.
In the hours that followed she had tried to close her ears
to the sickening sounds of torture going on in cells around
her. She knew she must try to sleep because she would need
all the strength she could muster to face her own when it
came. But every time she closed her eyes, the sounds of
gunfire seemed to echo mercilessly through her brain. It
wasn’t that she believed they had shot Armand; on the
contrary, to her the sound meant that he had been released and
now there was nothing and no one to stop him, because
no one, apart from her, knew who he was. She had wept for a
while, feeling like a child and longing for the comfort and
safety of Francois’ arms. But she wasn’t going to give the
Germans the satisfaction of seeing her weakness, so she had
let the tears dry on her cheeks and lain quietly on the bed,
praying that Francois would come…
Blomberg’s scrutiny continued. His desk was at the other
end of the room, beneath a massive portrait of the Fuihrer,
and despite the ache in her neck she held her head high as
she regarded him, not bothering to hide her repugnance.
‘Come forward,’ he said eventually.
Keeping her eyes defiantly on his, she walked towards the
desk.
‘Good,’ he said, his protuberant bottom lip trembling as
he smiled. He dropped the pen he was holding and sat back
in his chair. Then, taking a sheet of paper from the drawer
in front of him, he put it on the desk and said, ‘Herr Schmidt
informs me that, you do not believe we have shot the vigneron.’
Claudine’s nostrils flared over an insolent smile.
‘Perhaps you will tell me why you refuse to believe this?’
he said, folding his hands over his belly.
‘I’m not a fool.’ she said, biting out the words.
‘Perhaps not. But I must inform you that you are gravely
mistaken in your refusal to believe he was shot.’
‘I’ll believe it when you show me the body.’
Blomberg sucked his bottom lip thoughtfully. ‘Would I
be correct in thinking that you suspect him to be the man
who is avenging himself on your husband?’
Now how would they know that, she thought, unless
Armand had told them? ‘No,’ she said, ‘I don’t suspect it. I
know it’
Blomberg’s body rocked back and forth as he nodded.
‘You seem very certain, madame. Are you equally certain of
your husband’s fidelity? That Monsieur le Comte puts your
safely above all else? That he loves you, madame?’
Her eyes darted to his. ‘Yes,’ she said carefully, wondering
what this could possibly have to do with anything.
‘I see.’ He looked down at his hands. ‘And if I were to tell
you,’ he continued, raising his head until his malicious eyes
connected with hers, ‘that for the past ten months your
husband has been regularly visiting his mistress, Elise
Pascale, who now resides in a house he has leased for her in
Montbazon, what would you say then?’
‘I would say you were lying,’ Claudine snapped.
‘But I am not lying,’ Blomberg smiled pleasantly. ‘And I
shall prove it.’
She stared at him. Weak with hunger as she was, her legs
began to tremble with the effort of holding her steady.
‘Your husband told you, did he not,’ Blomberg
continued, ‘that his rendezvous in Vichy was at nine o’clock
in the morning. It was a lie, I’m afraid.’ He leaned forward
and pushed the sheet of paper across the desk. ‘There is the
memorandum instructing him to present himself at three in
the afternoon, six hours later than he told you. He lied so
that he could spend an uninterrupted night with his
mistress. Oh dear, you look a little shaken. Would you like to
sit down, madame?’
Claudine glared at him, inwardly struggling to fight back
the panic - and persuade herself that it was only tiredness
that was making her react like this.
‘Suit yourself,’ Blomberg shrugged. ‘But maybe you will
change your mind when I tell you that not long after your
husband arrived at Elise Pascale’s house, on the afternoon
when you supposed him to be travelling to Vichy, Elise
Pascale informed him of our intention to arrest you. She
knew, because I had told her myself. Your husband had
ample opportunity then to return home and try to prevent it
happening, but as you know, madame, he continued on to
Vichy. Now, are you still as firm in your belief that your
husband loves you?’
She wished her head would stop spinning, then she
would be able to think. As it was, tears were welling in her
eyes, bitter, desperate tears. But she wouldn’t listen to him.
He was lying. Francois would never…
‘No, of course you aren’t,’ Blomberg answered for her.
‘So now I return to the matter of Armand St Jacques,
though I am sure it must have already occurred to you, madame, that you may have made a terrible mistake there too.’
Everything inside her suddenly froze. Her lips were
parted to scream the denial, but nothing came out. She
mustn’t listen to him. She must trust her instincts, and every
instinct in her body screamed that he was lying. Why, then,
was she suddenly so afraid?
Blomberg got up from his chair and walked round his
desk. ‘I see you are not quite so sure of yourself now, madame,’ he said, his little round eyes gleaming with pleasure. ‘What is more, you appear to have mislaid that
arrogance I find so offensive. And what has happened, I
wonder, to that acerbic tongue? The one you used with such
contempt when addressing me, an officer of the Reich.
Perhaps you do not feel so superior now. Perhaps you are
beginning to understand what it means to ridicule a German
officer. You surely didn’t think you were going to get away
with it, did you?’
He lashed out with his fist, so fast that Claudine didn’t
even see it coming. She staggered across the room, fell
against a cabinet and struck her head on the corner.
‘How does it feel, madame,’ he said, advancing towards
her, eyes glittering and lip trembling, ‘to know that your
husband has betrayed you?’ He caught her by the collar and
rammed her head against the cabinet again. ‘Does it feel as
good as knowing that you have sent an innocent man to his
death?’
Tears of pain were streaming through the grime on her
cheeks, but she didn’t make a sound as he hit her again, so
hard that stars exploded before her eyes.
‘No, you’re not so proud now, are you?’ he jeered, letting
her go and slapping her to the floor. His boot smashed into her
thigh, then he grabbed her hair and jerked her to her knees.
‘You know what you’re going to do now, don’t you?’ he
growled, and slammed his fist into her face.
Blood spurted from her nose and mouth, but as she made
to cover them he caught her hair again and yanked back her
head.
Oh God, let me die, let me die now, she prayed,
squeezing her eyes shut against the searing pain. He
slapped her again and again, harder and harder, until she
started to gag on her own blood.
At last he let her go. She fell back to the floor, blood and
saliva trickling from her mouth, her head rolling from side
to side as she moaned softly at the terrible pain in her head.
It was nothing compared to the pain and confusion in her
heart, but still she wouldn’t let go, still she wouldn’t allow
herself to believe that Francois had betrayed her, or that she