When two lives collide, p.7
When Two Lives Collide, page 7
“Qui etes-vous? Et qu’est-ce que vous faites avec ces armes dans ma meson?” screamed an elderly lady entering the room from another doorway, “le pistolet s’il vous plait.”
Helmut swung towards the lady, firing with consummate ease. His only shot entering just under her nose, gushes of her blood flooding against the plain white-tiled wall. My moment had come, as I rushed forward crashing against the Germans; the Walther PP forced from Helmut’s hand as we all slammed against the floor. Taking advantage of my surprise attack I rolled away from Helmut and his colleague, scooping the Walther with my right hand. Trusting my luck so far, perched on the stone floor I sat up aiming at both Germans who were still trying to regain their composure. Both shots hit their targets. Helmut’s bullet leaving a blooded area in the centre of his chest, his colleague’s shell entering just in front of his right ear removing part of his skull as it exited from the back of his obliterated head.
Now was not a time to question my actions or wait to explain away my reason for escaping the blood bath. Now was the time to put rapid space between me and the lawn filled with uniformed troops. Leaving through the rear tradesman entrance would be suicidal; for certain three shots would have been heard even by the dozing troops. From the site of the slaughter, I turned into a long corridor which must lead to the main residential part of the house. Hiding in the Chateau was also not an option. High tailing away from the Chateau was the only plan worthy of consideration. Distance and crowds must now be my ally.
Chapter 9
Once I was away from the Chateau de Rambouillet, I was confident I wouldn’t be chased by a convoy of gendarmerie Citroens, sirens screaming in hot pursuit. Whatever assignment the two Gestapo officers were involved in back at the chateau with the outbreak of war just a few days’ old, German troops and secret police would not yet have a role openly approved by the French. There was no weapon for I had stuffed the two Walther PPs in my backpack. For certain, the two Gestapo officers were not alone. There would be others operating with them, wishing to sanitise the mess.
At some stage, the body of the elderly lady who had inadvertently walked into a situation not of her making, would be found. But having already witnessed the unbridled brutality Hitler’s secret police could dole out, the possibility of her body permanently disappearing would not shock. Logic suggested that crowds offered my best cover until I could resolve my identity issues. Without fail, I needed new work papers and a new passport.
France was no longer a country where I could trust anyone. M Chambray had moved his allegiance to the Vichy party. So only God knew who would be harbouring the same anti-British feelings whilst waiting for Germany to take control. For those were firmly Hitler’s intentions. If the Chateau de Rambouillet could harbour a group of undercover German secret police, one could only imagine who else had already been deployed. Well in advance of the outbreak of war.
Montparnasse by train from Rambouillet was but a short journey, delivering me into the throbbing backstreets of the 14th arrondissement in under an hour. On the second visit to Paris back in my teens, accompanying granny GT to meet her mother, we spent several evenings in the bars and cafes off Boulevard Montparnasse. There we would be treading the footsteps of many renowned artists and off beat entertainers. But now was not a time for indulging in the pleasures of this artistic nightspot. I urgently needed new instructions from London. Although Ruddy had suggested I wait for two weeks, events had moved at such a pace I needed to readdress my mission and obtain a new identity. But more importantly, I needed to get back to London.
Whilst lunching at the Hotel de Crillon, just off the Place de la Concorde, great grandmother had described to us the stylish functions she’d attended together with her late husband at the nearby British Embassy. The magnificent building stood on the affluent Rue du Faubourg Saint-Honore, which now must be my refuge or at least a place where I could make contact with my controller. In 1939, telephones were not available on every street corner in Paris; but guests at the Hotel de Crillon would be availed of the use of telephones, albeit at considerable expense. Another issue suddenly hit me. How would I gain access to the British Embassy with a French passport? In these troubled times, this could be difficult if not impossible.
“Where’re you calling from?” asked Ruddy as though I was wandering through Piccadilly to meet for lunch. “All well I trust? Made contact with the Gaullists yet?” he rambled on.
“Ruddy, this is serious. I’m in Paris. The country’s lousy with Gestapo and even GT’s friend has become a Brit hater,” I angrily replied. “I need a new passport Ruddy and different cover. Just a matter of time before this becomes a German satellite. There must be someone at the British Embassy to help. My only way into the Gaullists with Chambray has gone. Do I come back?”
“Need to think and chat to SP when he gets back tomorrow. Best I can do Bob. You’re a big boy, think on your feet. You’re an undercover agent Bob,” with that the line went dead.
“Encore un café monsieur?” the uniformed waiter enquired.
“No…I mean…merci,” I mumbled boiling with fury.
The waiter smiled and walked away. I was alone in a country where friends of Britain appeared to be swiftly disappearing. I still had my French passport and work papers which I’d collected from the floor after the shootings. Bemused by the changing speed of my situation, I slumped back in the imitation Louis chair, wishing I’d accepted encore un café.
On a previous visit to Hotel de Crillon with my relations, the dress code was dominated by the opulence of the well-connected of Europe. Each treating Paris and particularly Hotel de Crillon as Europe’s glitziest fashion centre. This time, the entrance and lobby area resembled a disorganised military convention. High ranking officers of all three French military forces strode imperiously around, attempting to look important and fully occupied.
Confusion reigned amongst the increasing numbers of uniformed officers. Many grabbling with over laden brief cases. Others making their presence felt passing files around, as if participating in a children’s party game. Whatever was happening since the outbreak of war, the body language within the Hotel de Crillon would be most uninspiring, once exposed to the French public. My waiter waved away my request to settle the bill, pointing towards the gathered military might as my host. I nodded my thanks in return, and without looking back, left the hotel for the next unchartered stage of my task.
I had last met Duchess Marie when Granny GT was staying at her grand second floor apartment on the Avenue Kleber. Her apartment equidistant between the Arc de Triumph and the Trocadero, towered over by the Palais de Chaillot. My concern over my personal security made it necessary for me to walk the Champs-Elysees turning left at the Arc de Triumph along Avenue Kleber. The faded pink building was just as I remembered, many of the balconies smothered in greenery even during these late days of autumn. I remembered the apartment being on the second floor, extending laterally the width of the building.
But how would I get to the apartment door? Although I remembered its location on the second floor, try as could I just couldn’t remember the number. Somehow, I would have to make my way past the coded entry to the building. Patiently, I waited for a lapse in security, considering every opportunity to enter. After pacing around so not to appear suspicious, it appeared that as with most apartment blocks, there was a tradesmen’s back entrance. There was also an underground garage which would be accessed away from the gilded entrance area.
Once at the rear of the building an opportunity glared at me. Decorators in white overalls were moving freely in and out of the block. Their access door apparently unmanned. I strode past several of the decorators, mumbling a number of non-descript words at them. Once inside, I pushed ahead without turning to discuss the reason for my entry into the building. Now in the main entrance area, I swiftly located the fire escape, climbing to the second floor. And there it was, just across the main corridor from the lift, the door to the Duchess’s apartment. All I needed was to see her friendly face: request advice from someone with knowledge of the Nazis mentality, allowing me to take time considering my next step.
The Cambout family would have no sympathy with a French government that would compromise in any way with the Nazis. Their beloved Austria had seen at first-hand what occurred under the influence of the mad Austrian.
Nervously, I punched the doorbell which could be heard clearly from within the apartment. My calling had immediately alerted a yapping dog, which I guessed to be no larger than a small terrier. A muffled voice attempted to quell the outburst of the family’s pet.
“Du calme! Boris,” came a delicate female voice, certainly not coming from an elderly duchess.
A smartly dressed lady, no more than twenty-five, tall, with elegantly-styled blond hair, holding a Yorkshire terrier, smiled back at me.
“Do you speak English?” I ventured, “I was hoping to see our family friend Duchess Marie.”
“Your name would be good for a start,” she came back with a surprising East Coast American accent.
How many more surprises would today offer? I peered over her shoulder, this was definitely the apartment I had visited with Granny GT.
“Robert Ferguson but everyone calls me Bob. My grandmother’s mother and the Duchess were close friends. I came to this apartment a few years ago when my grandmother was staying here.”
“Come in…Bob,” she chuckled. “What can I do for you? You see my great grandmother the Duchess died just six months ago. Well into her nineties and sharp as razor till the last two days when I guess she decided enough was enough.”
All I could do was apologise for intruding and pass on my condolences. My own requirements had instantly been placed into insignificance. My hunt for the elusive Gaullist would end here. I knew the quickest route back to the Elephant and Castle must be my priority. Duchess Marie’s apartment was just as light and beautifully furnished as I remembered. Vast windows feeding light from the back of the building, the views dominated by the Eiffel Tower, just a short distance away.
“Please sit Bob. Boris has no appetite for you. He’s fed far too well. Let me make some coffee, and then you can explain what Marie could have done for you, that I can’t,” she smiled in a conspiratorial manner as she left for the kitchen.
My experience with women was extremely limited. At Oxford, I’d spent infrequent evenings sharing my affections between studies, occasionally with a Scottish MP’s daughter. This misguided lass, considered Oxford the perfect setting to seek out and collect a life partner. I never considered myself the marrying sort, thus our one sided relationship soon ended. Granny GT also had ideas to match me with prime breeding stock, many lying fallow in the rich estates of Shropshire. At least six of her recommendations, were lined up at various functions at Grayson Manor. None passing the starting post, much to the amusement of GT. Granny remained confused at my reluctance to breed from any of her selections.
“I guess names would be good, eh Bob. Chantelle du Cambout at your service sir,” she offered whilst pouring coffee from a large stone jug.
“I moved back from Boston to be with Marie about a year ago. She had decided not to return to Austria. Her memories of the family’s previous experience of the Germans were just too much for her. But you know Bob, the bastards will soon be here in Paris. I guess I’ll get my ass back stateside when it happens. Afraid that the du Cambout name is not the most popular with the Krauts. By the way, Marie heard your grandfather had an accident. I know what great friends the two families were to each other.”
I could sense she was relaxing with the knowledge of the years of closeness our families had clocked up. Freedom to discuss our pasts and a few war stories was one thing, but moving towards helping my mission was another and possibly poles apart. Over the next hour or so we swapped family stories as way of cementing our trust in each other. She articulated over and over her concerns for France, now that its largest neighbour was hell bent on world domination. Chantelle was indeed an attractive lady; as she explained approaching thirty far too rapidly. She had qualified as an attorney at Harvard then specialised in divorce for a large Boston legal practice.
However, she had returned to be with Marie when she inherited the family estates ahead of her mother, who had been formally disinherited. Apparently, a pathetic alcoholic living in Amsterdam with a nasty piece of work who ran a number of sex shows in the Red Light canal area. All she would say regarding the family estate that she was now responsible for substantial family financial interests in a number of countries. The family business empire required her to travel extensively to keep the investments under her tight control. Looking at Chantelle, a very attractive woman, fashionably dressed, it was hard to visualise her as the chief executive of a number of companies scattered across several continents.
There was no way Chantelle was about to believe my present predicament with my unsubstantiated stories. Added to my questionable reasons for arriving in Paris, seeking out an old Austrian aristocrat for help. But what the hell, what other choice was there.
“Chantelle, I’m a serving British army officer working in the War Office. I was sent to France to find out what I can about the Gaullists chances of creating problems for the Germans, who will for sure advance into France. We believe it to be just a matter of months, maybe just weeks. My grandfather’s friend, my contact in Normandy, has already turned anti-British and advised me to leave before he forgot the friendship with my grandfather.”
I went on to explain my close shave in Germany with the General, and how near I came to disaster at the Chateau de Rambouillet. As much as we were swapping life’s experiences, my relationship with Military Intelligence and the names of my bosses was something to be kept from her.
On my previous visit to the Duchess’s apartment, the grand picture window facing the Eiffel Tower had provided a spectacular light show. Already, the war just a few days old, blackout rules had extinguished lights all over Paris. In particular, the stunning night time views across the Seine from her apartment. As the light dimmed across Paris, we sat with just three church candles, glimmering off the gleaming surfaces off the apartment’s highly polished furniture.
“I think we should abide by the new rules,” Chantelle offered closing the heavy gold patterned drapes. “I like candle light Bob, it’s relaxing and allows the mind thinking space.”
After nearly three hours, I sensed Chantelle was moving towards her desire to express and expose matters that may assist my mission, without disclosing the family secrets. I understood that both our families had suffered severely at the expense of Nazi pressure in Austria. There was no explanation for the assets she was now running for the Cambout clan. Indeed, this was not my business; but I sensed somewhere there was a step forward to be taken. Maybe with the assistance of this extraordinary situation I now found myself trying to comprehend. I felt a genuine hatred of all things Nazi, plus a failure to trust the French government. As she continued, she expressed an even greater concern over the attitude towards confrontation with Germany by a majority of the French population. All and more she expressed with a depth of heartfelt sincerity.
There comes a time when a step into the unknown must be taken. I had arrived at that spot. I was facing a lady with a trained mind, an attorney confident to fight for the rights of a downtrodden spouse. A woman of untold wealth, who would not be swayed by financial temptation. Most of all, a family history of hatred towards the enemy waiting to fight against the safety barrier her family had developed in France. What could I lose? In a matter of months I had witnessed unexpected murders and escaped death myself. My actions probably triggering a search for the unknown slayer of two Gestapo officers.
“Chantelle, as much as I think our motives are shared, there’s little you can do for me,” I began. “I must return to London to regroup. They will find the people I need to contact and then I can return. Who can I trust here with the Germans infiltrating everywhere? Or that’s what it looks like to me!”
“Try trusting me. You’ve hit a home run Bob,” she smiled as though I’d helped her win at the tables.
Chapter 10
January 1, 1940 had not seen the usual joyous celebrations in Paris for the New Year. The Third Reich continued its push across Europe and a feeling of unease rushed through the veins of Parisian life. For once, the city renowned for its fun on such occasions became lifeless. Over the past months, my relationship with Chantelle had changed. She had insisted that I move into a small servant’s room adjoining the apartment. Gradually, we had worked towards a level of mutual trust, and this allowed me to reveal my mission orders. These it seemed matched her desire to develop a solid and trusted team of resistance fighters across France.
Posing as a loving couple, we made a number of trips to bars in some of the seedier parts of Saint-Denis, heavily occupied by North Africans from Morocco and Tunisia. Many prepared to steal from anyone of differing ethnic backgrounds venturing into their territory. Yet there was a strangeness about our frequent visits. Whilst entering their territory accompanied by the beautiful Chantelle, deliberately dressed down on those occasions, we were treated with smiles and chivalrous respect.
Most North Africans living in Saint-Denis had developed a dialect impossible for me to understand, all but a few words. Chantelle however, was entirely at home chatting away as though a local from a seedy bar in the old part of Marrakesh. I listened intently waiting patiently for a translation from this alien tongue. We made a number of visits, each one obviously allowing us closer to the top honchos.
It took us four months before we reached the next stage of the selection process set up by the North Africans. We were escorted to a rundown aging chateau, a few streets away from Saint-Denis station. The exterior showed overall signs of neglect; buddleia bushes sprouted all along the ridge of the flat roof. As we approached the large locked double iron gates, four heavily armed North Africans moved into position on their side. Two guards accompanying us moved closer to the gates; the security then relaxed as we were approved for entry.
