Pierre pushed the button on the call-box phone.
‘Hallo, Bertrand?’
‘Who is this speaking?’
‘Pierre. Pierre de Vomécourt.’
‘Pierre? But I thought—’
‘Never mind, my friend. I must see you. Can you meet me at the Dupont Latin in half an hour?’
Half an hour later, Pierre and Bertrand walked into the café together. Pierre wasted no time in explaining to his old friend the rough purpose of his mission and the difficulty he was in: ‘I must find somewhere to stay before anyone at the hotel gets suspicious.’
‘I daren’t have you to my place,’ Bertrand said. ‘My mother-in-law is staying with us and I don’t trust her to keep her mouth shut.’
‘I understand.’
‘Meet me at the Café Mabillon at eight-thirty tonight. I’ll try and fix something by then.’
III
The bottom of the rowing boat grated on the deserted beach. Harry Morgan narrowed his eyes as he inspected the line of dunes for signs of the Milice or other unwanted visitors; there was no one. He gave the boatman a wave and vaulted, case in hand, onto the soft sand. At once he drew his revolver from his pocket and strolled warily up the beach. If the captain was to be relied on, he should be a mile or two from the town of St Tropez on the Côte d’Azur. At this time, October 1941, this coastline was still unmolested by the Germans and Harry expected a trouble-free trip. It was now three in the morning. He passed through the cactus-infested dunes on to the harsh gravel of the foreshore. Within a few minutes he could see the outlines of a farmhouse; he decided not to approach it to avoid the howling of dogs which he particularly feared. Instead he cut up through a pine grove and soon found himself a pine-board hut where the cork-cutters kept their tools. He lay down there to rest for a couple of hours, not wanting to enter the town at so conspicuous an hour.
Bearing in mind my instructions to find out what had happened in Marseilles, Harry decided to make his way straight to that city. Later that day he was sitting comfortably in a second class compartment as the train bore him along the rugged Provencal coastline.
‘Vos papiers, Monsieur.’ A member of the Milice stood in the door of the compartment.
Harry handed up his papers.
‘Where are you going?’
‘To Marseilles.’
‘For what purpose?’
‘Business.’
The policeman handed back his papers. ‘Bien, Monsieur.’
Upon reaching Marseilles, Harry decided to go carefully. He took a room in a commercial hotel in the business district under his cover name of Monsieur Nulli, wine salesman. Casual travellers were, of course, quite unremarkable in so busy a port as Marseilles and a feeling of security soon reassured Harry. He spent a certain amount of time loitering around the tabacs and bars of the old quarter which had added to its reputation for toughness another for defiance. Already its narrow and ill-smelling streets hid many refugees on the run from the Nazis in the occupied zone and it was a brave member of the Milice who dared to venture into the quarter alone. Occasionally an overzealous sous-officier attempted some kind of a search, but a pail of slops might inadvertently be tipped over him or a wardrobe slide unaided down a steep staircase at him. The Vieux Port remained strictly Free French. Eventually, exasperated by its continued resistance, the Germans were to blow it up, but that was not yet.
Nagged by a small pain in his side which he discounted as mere nerves, Harry began cautiously to question various contacts – the small lawyer whose practice was in the poorer quarter, the railwaymen who worked the shunting service along the quays and similar trustworthy people – about their willingness to participate in a clandestine ring; this ring was later led by a group who took the corporate name of the Palestine Express by virtue of their common Jewish origin. They did valuable work and remained undiscovered till after the liberation. Harry was somewhat surprised that those whom he approached were at first very suspicious of him and when he was able to win their confidence he asked them what made them so apprehensive. They answered, cryptically, ‘Rumours’.
The house where our wireless operator was supposed to be working was at number twelve bis Rue de la Colline Noire. Harry scouted round the area, largely at night, taking drinks in the tiny bistros of the quarter and keeping his ears open. He had to exercise the greatest tact in his inquiries, for he knew that if anyone suspected him of being a police spy – whether counter-espionage or routine detective – the people of the Vieux Port would give him short shrift.
Soon it became clear that he would have to abandon his circumspect approach and make boldly for the wireless operator’s den. If he had been blown, there was nothing for it: Harry would have to take his chance that the Milice had abandoned their watch on the house.
The Rue de la Colline Noire was a dark alley between cliffs of black houses, the entrances to which were up narrow stairs beside the shops forming the ground floor. Prostitutes hung about the doorways and seamen of many nations and origins moved silently up the street. The pain in his side was really worrying Harry now and he pressed his hand to it as he pushed through the knot of whores at the door of number twelve bis, ignoring the cries of ‘Hallo, cheri,’ which greeted him. A very fat woman a-jangle with cheap jewellery met him on the first landing. ‘Bonsoir, monsieur,’ she said in an inquisitive tone.
‘Je viens de la part de Monsieur Pierre,’ Harry said.
The woman looked sharply up the dark stairs which led to the second floor.
‘Send him up,’ a voice said.
Suspiciously, the woman removed her body and allowed Harry to pass. He hesitated, somehow alarmed by the tempo of the words which had just been spoken, and then went up the stairs. He looked back over his shoulder and saw that the fat woman had resumed her massive station barring the way down.
In the shadows on the top floor was a man. Harry had left his revolver with the lawyer, who had put it in his strong box. Once the danger of the actual landing was completed an agent might well find his revolver an embarrassment, since the times when, engaged on jobs of this kind, he would have to fight his way out, were outnumbered by those when he might be searched. A revolver would, of course, betray him when otherwise he could expect to bluff his way out.
The man in the shadows said: ‘Tu viens de la part de Pierre?’
‘Yes.’
‘Come in, please.’
Harry went past the man through the door into the attic. It was in darkness.
‘I’ll turn on the light,’ the man behind him said, clicking the switch.
Three members of the Milice with drawn machine-pistols faced Harry across the narrow attic.
IV
Pierre was still without any means of contacting us in England and of keeping us informed of the results he had obtained and the work he was doing. Already we had had several signs that the French would rally to our cause, but we were desperately anxious to get first-hand information from our men actually in the field and the complete silence from France was a strain on our nerves and a dam to our progress. There was nothing we could do but wait. We waited.
At the beginning of December, Pierre was talking with a contact in a flat in the Boulevard Raspail when another visitor was admitted. This was a tall, narrow-faced man with black brows and black hair whose eyes burned in their deep sockets with a compulsive fervour.
‘This is my friend Stanislaw Raczynski,’ Pierre’s contact said. ‘Stanislaw, this is Félix, a British officer.’ Pierre was used by this time to these gross breaches of security and he knew it was useless to protest about them. He shook the Pole’s skinny hand, surprised by the strength in the bony fingers.
‘I am pleased to meet you,’ the Pole said. ‘I like working with the British.’
‘Oh, have you worked with us before?’ Pierre inquired. ‘I am working now with you,’ was the startling reply. ‘Our wireless operator is British.’
Pierre knew that there were no other members of the organisation
in Paris, so he could not resist the temptation to discover who this other Briton was; at the same time he had the fear that the man might be a German decoy, in which case the sooner he was exposed the better. On the other hand, if he was a genuine wireless operator, this might be a chance for regaining contact with us in England; it was a chance that had to be taken. Pierre was there to use his initiative.
‘Really?’ Pierre said. ‘I should like to meet this other British officer.’
‘But naturally. Come to the café des Beaux Arts tonight at nine o’clock. I will take you to him.’
Pierre talked to Lucie about the proposed meeting and she begged to be allowed to accompany him. He insisted on going alone, for he feared that the rendezvous might be a trap.
Stanislaw Raczynski was there in the café des Beaux Arts, but he brought disappointing news: the British officer had positively refused to meet Pierre unless he could be sure that he could be trusted.
‘I simply must meet him,’ Pierre replied. ‘I’m sure I could convince him.’
‘He wants proof.’
‘What sort of proof can I provide?’ Pierre snapped. ‘I haven’t got my passport with me.’ The prospect of making contact with London was so close that he could scarcely restrain his impatience, even though his mind told him that the wireless operator’s caution was perfectly justified.
‘I will talk to my friends. Meet me on the far side of the Pont de l’Alma at six o’clock tomorrow evening.’
A series of rendezvous followed as Pierre was shuttled back and forth between the various members of the Pole’s organisation. There seemed to be a vast and involved mesh of officers. Interviews took place in dark cellars in front of people who were addressed as ‘mon Capitaine’ and ‘mon Colonel’ and even, on one occasion, ‘mon Général’. It seemed to Pierre that so intricate a set-up must eventually be permeated by the enemy, for its very rigidity made it vulnerable. In all our operations we strove to eliminate unnecessary red-tape, both at home and in France; at times we were to be censured for it, but the men in the field were thus able to feel that their own initiative mattered while they were in France and that we in England would do everything we could to help them, no matter how unpopular it made us with other branches of the service.
At last Pierre was able to meet the British wireless operator; by now it was almost Christmas. The Briton was working in a tiny upstairs room in the Gobelins district, a poor quarter beyond the Jardins du Luxembourg. Snow lay on the ground and it was very cold. The wireless operator was lying in bed when Pierre was admitted by a Polish member of the organisation who nodded meaningly at the operator and sat himself on the stairs outside the room, the woollen collar of his canvas jacket turned up about his ears.
‘Mon Dieu, am I glad to see you!’ Pierre said.
The other drew his eiderdown up to his neck. Pierre knew that there was a pistol pointing at him under it.
‘You know this is all strictly against orders?’
‘Yes I know. But I must get a message back to England. You were the only hope; that’s why I insisted on seeing you.’
‘Whom do you work for?’
‘I’m afraid I cannot tell you that.’
‘Look, don’t be a fool, how can I send a message if I don’t know who to send it to?’
‘How do I know you’re really what you say you are?’ Pierre said.
‘You’ll have to trust me. Now then.’
Pierre said: ‘The message would be for DLYM 299047.’ This was a code call-sign which de Vomécourt had been instructed to use.
‘What do you want me to tell them?’
‘I want instructions. I think I ought to get back to London, but they’ll know what the best thing is. The important thing is to let them know that I’m alive and have information for them—’
‘Ah!’ The other shifted the eiderdown and smiled. ‘Tell me, do you go to the theatre at all?’
‘Yes, a bit,’ Pierre said with a frown.
‘Did you ever see that thing of Sheriff’s they did at the Windmill in 1938?’
‘The Windmill? You must have the theatre wrong.’
‘I don’t think so, my friend.’ The eiderdown was pulled aside to reveal the expected revolver.
‘Look, what is this – they only do leg shows at the Windmill—’
‘All right,’ the other suddenly smiled. ‘I’ll send your message.’
V
Harry Morgan was quickly handcuffed. He had the presence of mind to protest most vigorously at this treatment.
‘I will call my lawyer,’ he shouted. ‘I’ll have the law on you. You won’t get away with this.’
‘We are the law,’ said the chief of the Milice. ‘Take him down.’
As Harry was led away through the streets of the Vieux Port, there were boos and catcalls from the inhabitants. ‘Sa-lauds! Sa-lauds! Sa-lauds!’ they chanted at the Milice.
Harry was driven in a Black Maria to the police headquarters.
‘Now then, Monsieur Nulli, what were you doing in that house?’
‘I refuse to answer any questions until I have spoken to my lawyer.’
‘There will be time for that,’ sighed the detective.
‘I am a sick man. I need a doctor. My friend Pierre told me I could find one in the Rue de la Colline Noire – suddenly I am arrested. Should a man be arrested for being ill? I will write to the Marshal himself about this. It is an outrage. Have you the Marshal’s permission to detain me?’
‘We do not need—’
‘I demand to see my lawyer. I am a sick man. I need a doctor.’
‘We will telephone—’
‘I am losing my faith in the Republic—’
‘What did you want in the Rue de la Colline Noire?’
‘A doctor. I am a—’
‘You are a sick man, we understand that,’ the detective shouted. ‘How are you sick? What is wrong with you?’
Suddenly Harry remembered the pain in his side; at once a twinge went through him. ‘Here,’ he said, ‘feel this.’ The detective apprehensively placed his hand on Harry’s side. ‘Can you feel it? The palpitation. It’s terrible.’
By this time, Harry had everyone in the police station rushing about, phoning the lawyer in the Vieux Port and trying to get hold of a doctor. Nevertheless, in spite of having somewhat distracted the interest of his captors, Harry knew that sooner or later they would begin to interrogate him in earnest; the quicker he could get away from them the better. For the moment, however, no opportunity presented itself. At this time Vichy had a number of plainclothes Gestapo men working for them; Harry knew he must clear out before he was handed over to them.
The ‘palpitation’ seemed to have impressed the detective, for within half an hour a doctor was shown into the cell where Harry had been locked. He examined Harry and a frown came over his face when Harry explained about the pain in his side. ‘We must get you to hospital at once,’ was the verdict.
‘That is impossible,’ said the detective. ‘This man is a terrorist.’
‘He must go to hospital. I will phone about a bed. He must be operated on at once.’
‘I refuse to allow him to go to hospital in Marseilles,’ persisted the detective. ‘He has friends here. He might walk out of the hospital.’
‘My dear sir,’ replied the doctor, ‘if this man walked out of hospital he would not get very far. He has appendicitis.’
Harry listened to this diagnosis with considerable trepidation; he seemed unwittingly to have brought more on himself than he had bargained for. Within an hour he was in an ambulance with the detective and the doctor on the way to Aix-en-Provence. The doctor told him that the hospital there was excellent. Harry lay on the stretcher in the ambulance and closed his eyes, thinking; he knew that Aix also contained the headquarters of the Milice for the district. The people in Marseilles had told him of men being taken to Aix for questioning. They arrived in Aix at four in the morning. Harry was put to bed in a private room with a guard on the d
oor.
‘We’ll soon have you right,’ the doctor assured him. ‘We’ll have that appendix out in no time.’
At eight they came for him. He was put on a trolley and wheeled down the corridor to a waiting room outside the operating theatre. He was wearing pyjamas with his mackintosh over them instead of a dressing gown. The guard had been refused entry to the operating theatre. ‘Do you think he will walk away in the middle of the operation?’ the doctor snapped indignantly.
When the trolley had halted, the doctor and the surgeon went into the vestibule for a short consultation. Harry could see them talking through a round observation hole, their backs to him. He was alone. He knew it was now or never; once he had been operated upon he would have to lie powerless while the Milice checked his papers and found them to be forged. He might well go straight from his convalescence to his death. Silently he swung his legs to the ground and slipped out of the room. He could not go back the way they had come for fear of the guard, so he took a passage which ran at right angles to it. He must find some clothes. Now he had a stroke of luck – searching with frenzied calm for signs of discarded clothing, he saw through an open door a room which the painters used to keep their overalls and equipment. Within seconds he had slipped on a paint-stained overall and paint-drenched espadrilles, snatched up a pot and a ladder and hurried on his way. So far there was no outcry, but it must come any second. He realised that the front door would be alerted. He must find the back stairs.
‘Stop him! Stop the assassin!’ There it was. Harry heard running footsteps behind him. The passage along which he was walking seemed endless. He turned and began to walk back towards his pursuers. Not recognising him, the detective and the doctor and the guard and a nurse came tearing past towards the front stairs. He made room for them to pass and proceeded to the service stairs. A few seconds later, still with his ladder and his pot of paint, he walked out of the hospital into the streets of Aix. Stabs of pain bit into his side as he boarded a tram for the suburbs of the town.
They Fought Alone Page 4
