The three exchanged glances; they believed him, and Holcroft knew why. He had picked out the two Englishmen himself, volunteered the information before being confronted with it.
«If they’re British, what do they want with you?» asked the man in the field jacket.
«That’s between Helden von Tiebolt and myself.»
«But you think they are British?» pressed the man in the jacket.
«Yes.»
«I hope you’re right.»
The man in the overcoat leaned forward. «What do you mean you flew to Le Mans? What happened?»
«I thought I could throw them off. I was convinced I had. I bought a ticket to Marseilles. I made it clear to the girl at the counter that I had to get to Marseilles, and then picked a flight that had stops. The first was Le Mans, and I got off. I saw them questioning her. I never said anything about Le Mans!»
«Don’t excite yourself,» said the man in the field jacket. «It only draws attention.»
«If you think they haven’t spotted me, you’re crazy! But how did they do it?»
«It’s not difficult,» said the woman.
«You rented a car?» asked the elegantly dressed man.
«Of course. I had to drive back to Paris.»
«At the airport?»
«Naturally.»
«And naturally, you asked for a map. Or at least directions, no doubt mentioning Paris. I mean, you were not driving to Marseilles.»
«Certainly, but lots of people do that.»
«Not so many, not at an airport that has flights to Paris. And none with your name. I can’t believe you have false papers.»
Holcroft was beginning to understand. «They checked,» he said in disgust.
«One person on a telephone for but a few minutes,» said the man in the field jacket. «Less, if you were reported having left the plane at Le Mans.»
«The French would not miss the opportunity of selling an empty seat,» added the man in the elegant coat. «Do you see now? There are not so many places that rent cars at airports. The make, the color, the license, would be given. The rest is simple.»
«Why simple? In all Paris, to find one car?»
«Not in Paris, monsieur. On the road to Paris. There is but one main highway; it is the most likely to be used by a foreigner. You were picked up outside of Paris.»
Noel’s astonishment was joined by a sense of depression. His ineptness was too apparent. «I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.»
«You did nothing intentionally,» said the elegant man, his concentration back on the Englishmen, who were now seated in the first booth of the restaurant in the middle of the square. He touched the arm of the man in the field jacket. «They’ve sat down.»
«I see.»
«What are we going to do?» asked Holcroft.
«It’s being done,» answered the dark-haired woman. «Do exactly what we tell you to do.»
«Now,» said the man in the expensive coat.
«Get up!» ordered the woman. «Walk with me out into the street and turn right. Quickly!» Bewildered, Holcroft rose from his chair and left the café, the woman’s fingers clasped around his arm. They stepped off the curb.
«To the right!» she repeated.
He turned to his right.
«Faster!» she said.
He heard a crash of glass behind them, then angry shouts. He turned and looked back. The two Englishmen had left the booth, colliding with a waiter. All three were covered with wine.
«Turn right again!» commanded the woman. «Into the doorway!»
He did as he was told, shouldering his way past a crowd of people in the entrance of yet another café. Once inside, the woman stopped him; he whirled around instinctively and watched the scene in the square.
The Englishmen were trying to disengage themselves from the furious waiter. The man in the topcoat was throwing money on the table. His companion had made better progress; he was under the trellis, looking frantically to his left—in the direction Holcroft and the girl had taken.
Noel heard shouts; he stared in disbelief at the source. Not twenty feet from where the agents stood was a dark-haired woman in a shiny black raincoat, wearing thick tortoise-shell glasses and a white scarf around her neck. She stood yelling at someone loudly enough to draw the attention of everyone around her.
Including the Englishmen.
She stopped abruptly and began running up the crowded street, toward the south end of Montmartre. The British agents took up the chase. Their progress was slowed unexpectedly by a number of young people in jeans and jackets who seemed to be purposely blocking the Englishmen. Furious shouts erupted; then he could hear the shrill whistles of the gendarmes.
Montmartre became pandemonium.
«Come! Now!» The dark-haired woman—the one at his side—grabbed Noel’s arm again, and again propelled him into the street. «Turn left!» she ordered, pushing him through the crowds. «Back where we were.»
They approached the table behind the planter box. Only the man in the expensive overcoat remained; he stood up as they drew near.
«There may be others,» he said. «We don’t know. Hurry!»
Holcroft and the woman continued running. They reached a side street no wider than a large alley; it was lined with small shops on both sides, the dimly lit storefronts providing the only light in the block.
«This way!» said the woman, now holding Noel’s hand, running beside him. «The car is on the right. The first one by the corner!»
It was a Citroën; it looked powerful but undistinguished. There were layers of dirt on the body, the wheels were filthy and caked with mud. Even the windows had a film of dust on them.
«Get in the front! Drive,» commanded the woman, handing him a key. «I’ll stay in the back seat.»
Holcroft climbed in, trying to orient himself. He started the engine. The vibrations caused the chassis to tremble. It had an outsized motor, designed for a heavier car, guaranteeing enormous speed for a lighter one.
«Go straight toward the bottom of the hill!» said the woman behind him. «I’ll tell you where to turn.»
The next forty-five minutes were blurred into a series of plunges and sudden turns. The woman issued directions at the last second, forcing Noel to turn the wheel violently in order to obey. They sped into a highway north of Paris from a twisting entrance road that caused the Citroën to lurch sideways, careening off the mound of grass that was the center island. Holcroft held the wheel with all his strength, first straightening the car and then weaving between two nearly parallel cars ahead.
«Faster!» screamed the dark-haired woman in the back seat. «Can’t you go faster?»
«Jesus! We’re over ninety-five!»
«Keep looking in your mirrors! I’ll watch the side roads! And go faster!»
They drove for ten minutes in silence, the wind and the steady high-pitched hum of the tires maddening. It was all maddening, thought Noel as he shifted his eyes from the windshield to the rearview mirror to the side-view mirror, which was caked with dirt. What were they doing?
They were out of Paris; whom were they running from now?
There was no time to think; the woman was screaming again.
«The next exit; that’s the one!»
He barely had time to brake and turn the car into the exit. He screeched to a halt at the stop sign.
«Keep going! To the left!»