grinned and lit a cigarette.
Inside the café, Dubois went into the telephone booth and dialed the number of the Golden Coin. The receiver at the other end was picked up instantly.
“Yes, this is the Golden Coin. What can I do for you?”
It was Madame Bonnet, but there was something in her voice, he was sure of it; an instinct produced by a lifetime of bad habits told him as much.
“Would it be possible to book a table for seven tonight?” he asked. “Chicken paprika and a good Muscadet, if you could manage it.”
“No, I'm sorry, monsieur. I'm afraid we shall not be open for business tonight.”
Paul Dubois said calmly, “Many thanks, madame. Another time.”
At the Golden Coin, half a dozen customers sat at the tables trying to look as if they were enjoying their drinks. Walter Schellenberg leaned on the end of the bar and three Gestapo agents waited behind the curtain leading to the kitchen.
Angelique Bonnet was seated at her usual place behind the desk at the side of the bar, a small gray-haired woman in a severe black dress who ruled the establishment with a rod of iron.
Her husband, called to the Reserves, had been killed at Arras. Her one consolation in life was that her son, a navigator in the French Air Force, had escaped to England.
She put down the telephone receiver and Kleiber, who had been monitoring her conversation, replaced the earpiece on its hook.
“Good.”
“But of course,” she said. “Soon I will have no customers left, and still I do not know what all this is about.”
“A tanker filled with good German wine to be delivered here by two brothers named Dubois together with an even more interesting consignment, eh?”
It was not for nothing that Ange1ique Bonnet had spent fifteen years of her youth with a provincial repertory company, and her bewilderment looked extremely convincing.
“But I know no one of that name, monsieur, and as for German wine—well, with the greatest respect, there's just no call for it here.”
Kleiber looked uncertain and glanced toward Schellenberg, who said, “Have you considered the possibility that they don't actually have any connection with the establishment, but with one of the customers?”
“Yes, that had occurred to me, naturally.”
“And the local police. They have been issued with details of the tanker?”
“A full description,” Kleiber said stiffly. “Including the number.”
“Then there should be no cause for concern.” Schellenberg turned to Angelique Bonnet. “My dear madame,” he said in fluent French, “I'm afraid I must trouble you once again for another glass of that special cognac. It really is quite excellent.”
* * *
Paul Dubois leaned into the truck. “Right, get her out, quick,” he said to Henri. “Something's up at the café.”
His brother removed the panel and pulled Hannah through. She looked about her, bewildered. “Where are we? Paris?”
“Yes,” Paul Dubois told her. “A truckers' café in Clichy. I think we're in trouble. Whenever we have a passenger like you to deliver, we always phone in, just before arrival. A prearranged code. I order a special meal for a certain number of people. If things are okay, she accepts the booking, the woman who runs the place.”
“And she didn't just now?”
“Said she was closed tonight, and I've never known the Golden Coin to close before, not even during the first days of the German Occupation.”
“So what do we do?” Henri demanded.
Paul Dubois frowned, then made his decision. “If things have gone wrong at the Berlin end, this thing could be hot,” he said, slamming his hand against the tanker. “We'll leave it here and go the rest of the way on foot. If I'm wrong, if things are okay, we can come back for it later.”
There was a small church on the hill above the square in which the Golden Coin stood. From its cemetery, they could see the café clearly, the striped awning above the tables on the sidewalk.
“There's a black sedan
Inside the café, Dubois went into the telephone booth and dialed the number of the Golden Coin. The receiver at the other end was picked up instantly.
“Yes, this is the Golden Coin. What can I do for you?”
It was Madame Bonnet, but there was something in her voice, he was sure of it; an instinct produced by a lifetime of bad habits told him as much.
“Would it be possible to book a table for seven tonight?” he asked. “Chicken paprika and a good Muscadet, if you could manage it.”
“No, I'm sorry, monsieur. I'm afraid we shall not be open for business tonight.”
Paul Dubois said calmly, “Many thanks, madame. Another time.”
At the Golden Coin, half a dozen customers sat at the tables trying to look as if they were enjoying their drinks. Walter Schellenberg leaned on the end of the bar and three Gestapo agents waited behind the curtain leading to the kitchen.
Angelique Bonnet was seated at her usual place behind the desk at the side of the bar, a small gray-haired woman in a severe black dress who ruled the establishment with a rod of iron.
Her husband, called to the Reserves, had been killed at Arras. Her one consolation in life was that her son, a navigator in the French Air Force, had escaped to England.
She put down the telephone receiver and Kleiber, who had been monitoring her conversation, replaced the earpiece on its hook.
“Good.”
“But of course,” she said. “Soon I will have no customers left, and still I do not know what all this is about.”
“A tanker filled with good German wine to be delivered here by two brothers named Dubois together with an even more interesting consignment, eh?”
It was not for nothing that Ange1ique Bonnet had spent fifteen years of her youth with a provincial repertory company, and her bewilderment looked extremely convincing.
“But I know no one of that name, monsieur, and as for German wine—well, with the greatest respect, there's just no call for it here.”
Kleiber looked uncertain and glanced toward Schellenberg, who said, “Have you considered the possibility that they don't actually have any connection with the establishment, but with one of the customers?”
“Yes, that had occurred to me, naturally.”
“And the local police. They have been issued with details of the tanker?”
“A full description,” Kleiber said stiffly. “Including the number.”
“Then there should be no cause for concern.” Schellenberg turned to Angelique Bonnet. “My dear madame,” he said in fluent French, “I'm afraid I must trouble you once again for another glass of that special cognac. It really is quite excellent.”
* * *
Paul Dubois leaned into the truck. “Right, get her out, quick,” he said to Henri. “Something's up at the café.”
His brother removed the panel and pulled Hannah through. She looked about her, bewildered. “Where are we? Paris?”
“Yes,” Paul Dubois told her. “A truckers' café in Clichy. I think we're in trouble. Whenever we have a passenger like you to deliver, we always phone in, just before arrival. A prearranged code. I order a special meal for a certain number of people. If things are okay, she accepts the booking, the woman who runs the place.”
“And she didn't just now?”
“Said she was closed tonight, and I've never known the Golden Coin to close before, not even during the first days of the German Occupation.”
“So what do we do?” Henri demanded.
Paul Dubois frowned, then made his decision. “If things have gone wrong at the Berlin end, this thing could be hot,” he said, slamming his hand against the tanker. “We'll leave it here and go the rest of the way on foot. If I'm wrong, if things are okay, we can come back for it later.”
There was a small church on the hill above the square in which the Golden Coin stood. From its cemetery, they could see the café clearly, the striped awning above the tables on the sidewalk.
“There's a black sedan
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