They pausei at a doorway between two shops. The sign indicated that the hairdresser was upstairs. Sarah said, “I remember this place.”
“Would you be recognized?”
“I shouldn’t think so. The last time I was in here was to have my hair cut when I was ten years old.”
She led the way up the stairs, pushed open a door with a frosted glass pane and Martineau followed her in. It was only a small salon with two washbasins and a couple of hairdriers. The woman who sat in the corner reading a magazine was about forty with a round, pleasant face. She glanced up smiling, and then the smile was wiped clear away.
“Yes?” she said.
“I need my hair fixed rather badly,” Sarah said in French.
“I don’t speak French,” the woman replied.
Martineau said in English, “The young lady was a passenger on the Victor Hugo from Granville last night. As I am sure you are aware of the fate of that unhappy vessel, you will appreciate that she was in the water for some time. As she has no English I must speak for her. Her hair, as you can see, requires attention.”
“I can’t help. I’m booked up.”
Martineau looked around the empty salon. “So I see. Your identity card, if you please.”
“Why should I? I’ve done nothing.”
“Would you rather continue this conversation at Silver-tide?”
There was fear in her eyes. Sarah had never felt so wretched in her life and waited as the unfortunate woman found her handbag and produced the identity card. It was in the name of Mrs. Emily Johnson. Martineau examined it and handed it back.
“My name is Vogel-Standartenfuhrer Max Vogel. I have an appointment at the Town Hall with Colonel Heine, the commandant. I’ll be gone for an hour, perhaps a little longer. While I am away you will do whatever is necessary to the young lady’s hair. When I return, I am sure it will look quite delightful.” He opened the door. “If it doesn’t,
Ill close this establishment so fast you won’t know what’s hit you.”
They listened to him descend the stairs. Mrs. Johnson took a robe down from behind the door and turned to Sarah with a delightful smile. “All right, you dirty little French tart. Let’s make you look pretty for that butcher,” she said in English. Her smile became even more charming. “And I can only hope you get what you deserve.”
Sarah felt like cheering her out loud. Instead she stayed in control and replied in French, “Ah, the coat.”
She took it off, handed it to her, put on the robe and went to the nearest chair.
As Martineau crossed to the Town Hall he saw a policeman in traditional British bobby’s uniform and helmet standing on the steps talking to the sentry. They stopped talking, watching him warily as he approached.
“Standartenfuhrer Vogel for the commandant.”
The sentry jumped to attention and the police constable faded away discreetly. “The commandant arrived twenty minutes ago, Standartenfuhrer.”
Martineau moved into the hall and found a table at the bottom of the stairs, an army sergeant sitting there. He glanced up and Martineau said, “My name is Vogel. I believe Colonel Heine is expecting me.”
The sergeant leaped to his feet and picked up the phone. “Standartenfuhrer Vogel is here, Herr Major.” He replaced the receiver. “Major Necker will be down directly, sir.”
“Thank you.” Martineau walked away and looked out through the open door. Within moments there was the sound of boots on the stairs. He turned to find a young man hurrying down, an infantry major, no more than thirty from the look of him.
He was all cordiality, but then he would be, pausing briefly to click his heels before putting out a hand. “Felix Necker, Standartenfiihrer.”
He’d seen action, that was plain enough from the shrapnel scar running into the right eye. As well as the Iron Cross First Class he wore the Wounded Badge in silver, which meant he’d been a casualty at least three times, the Infantry Assault Badge and a Close Combat Clasp in gilt. It was recognition and familiarity with such items that kept Martineau alive. What they told him about people was important. What they said about this man was that he was a war hero.