‘I see,’ the Oberst said. ‘Perhaps I shall commandeer Hotel Etalon for the Gestapo. When I was in Austria I found that hotel rooms became cells and interrogation suites with minimal conversion.’

‘What about this house?’ the officer who’d been holding Marc asked. ‘Shall we keep watch in case Henderson returns?’

The Oberst thought for a second. ‘I agree with Potente. There’s no reason for Henderson to come back. But station a lookout in the next house for a few days, just in case.’

‘And the boy?’

The Oberst looked down at Marc and shrugged. ‘There’s no need to kill him. Let him stay here a while to find his feet, then turf him out.’

‘Very good, Herr Oberst,’ the officer said, saluting.

As the Oberst turned to leave, the telephone standing on the bureau rang out. Potente rushed across and crouched in front of the microphone, before grabbing the earpiece from its hook.

‘Hello,’ Potente said, speaking in French, whilst making a fair stab at an English accent. ‘Charles Henderson speaking.’

*

Rosie stood in the hallway of a large house, with a curved staircase behind and a stag’s head mounted on the wall above her head.

‘Is it Henderson?’ Paul whispered impatiently.

Rosie smiled and nodded before shushing her brother. ‘Mr Henderson! Thank god it’s you,’ she said. ‘You don’t know me, but I believe you knew my father, Digby Clarke?’

‘Very well indeed,’ Herr Potente said warmly.

‘My father was killed in an air raid last week. The last thing he did was ask us to try and find you.’

‘I see,’ Potente said, struggling not to sound too excited. ‘I’m sorry for your loss; your father was a good man and a great servant of his country.’

‘Thank you,’ Rosie said politely.

‘Now. I believe your father had some important documents. Do you know of their whereabouts?’

‘Yes,’ Rosie said happily. ‘That’s exactly why we’re contacting you. We’ve kept all of the blueprints and documents relating to Mannstein’s radio. We were trying to get south to put them on a boat at Bordeaux, but all our petrol got stolen and—’

‘Where are you now …?’ Suddenly Potente realised he ought to sound sympathetic. ‘I’m sorry; you have had a terrible time this past week. You must be Digby’s daughter. It’s Rosie, isn’t it?’

‘That’s right, Mr Henderson,’ Rosie said, nodding. ‘We’re just outside Tours, staying with a retired priest. It’s comfortable, but we’ll try heading south again with the documents if that’s what you want.’

‘No,’ Potente said sharply. ‘The roads are still dangerous. And I take it you have no transport?’

‘None,’ Rosie confirmed. ‘Although the priest looking after us seems well connected. He might be able to sort something out …’