by Kurt Magenta
The wife was stouter and rounder, more like a well-baked bun, with currants for eyes.
‘Lucky not to be overseas,’ she observed, as they scaled the narrow wooden staircase.
‘Merchant navy,’ he said. ‘We hit a mine. Lucky to be here at all.’
Now stop prying.
‘Poor thing. Here we are.’ A white door with a brass knob. Number 3. She unlocked it, pushed it open and handed him the key. ‘The facilities are up the hall on the right.’
She left and he entered the room, snapped on the light. Pink floral wallpaper, matching curtains over the blacked-out window. A brass-framed bed. A chest of drawers. A white porcelain wash basin with a ewer beneath it. Fine.
He dumped his newly-purchased duffel bag – another attempt at a seagoing touch – and considered his next move. Standing there, he could hear the trickle of rainwater in the guttering. Not much to be done at present. So he took the copy of Treasure Island and followed the innkeeper’s advice – he went downstairs for a pint. He found a quiet corner, and Pammy even rustled him up a dollop of fish pie. All of which would have been perfect, were it not for the suspicious glances the locals kept throwing him.
On his second visit to the bar, a big ruddy-faced man with a straggle of sandy hair appeared beside him. The sleeves of the man’s blue cotton shirt were rolled up to reveal, amid the gilded hairs on his right forearm, a tattoo of a heart, cracked in two and shedding a single drop of blood.
‘Joss here,’ said the man, jerking his head at the landlord, ‘says you been looking for the Frenchies.’
‘Just one in particular. A friend of mine.’
‘That’s as you say. Only,’ he scratched the side of his peeling nose, which was marbled with broken veins, ‘we’ve had a few strange types down here asking after the Frogs. We’re supposed to be pally and all that, but some of us have never warmed to ’em. And I can’t say they think much of us, since we sank their navy.’
He looked Lucien up and down. ‘Anyway, since you’re about as much of a sailor as my missus, I’m giving you a friendly warning. Step careful, lad.’
Lucien nodded. ‘Fair enough. Now, can I buy you a pint?’
Without smiling, the man said: ‘Don’t mind if you do.’
In the morning it was as if the rain and drear had been whisked away like a theatre backdrop and replaced with a sunny holiday scene. The sky looked freshly laundered; the fishing boats in the harbour had regained their toyshop gaiety. But these were English vessels – and small, at that, unlikely to have the range to cross to Brittany. He would have to walk to the bigger harbour at Newlyn.
Along the seafront route he saw a pillbox braced by sandbags. He had read of aerial dogfights out at sea, German bombs dropped on Truro. Sooner or later the war would come inland, to London. But for now its battles were anecdotal. Lucien did not feel like a solider; in fact he felt like a tourist enjoying a bracing stroll.
At a brisk clip it took him just over twenty minutes to reach Newlyn. It felt immediately more industrious than Penzance – there was a bustle and purpose to its wharves and warehouses. The harbour was a tangle of masts and cranes.
He knew he would recognise the Breton ships as much from their names as their markings. As he strolled out onto the crooked stone arm of the breakwater – with a stubby lighthouse like a raised thumb at the end – he saw Gwelan, Skravig-Gwenn, Aezenn Vor and Doun Vor. He jotted them down, along with the registration numbers on their bows. Wiry sunburned men swabbed the decks clean of blood and scales. The screeching of the gulls was almost drowned out by the tuneless symphony of cables whistling in the breeze and pinging against masts.
Occasionally one of the men would squint up at him with vague curiosity, but most were intent on their work. He had no idea how to approach them, let alone how to strike up a conversation. Catching one of them off-guard in the pub seemed a far better option than shouting down from the dock.
Feeling demoralised and faintly exposed, he turned back towards town. It was then that he saw – standing at the point where the breakwater met the quay – a tall figure in uniform. For a nerve-jangling second he thought it was Jasper Maddox. But the uniform was wrong: a military beret rather than a cap.
The distant figure was watching him.
Lucien picked up his pace. Abruptly the man turned and hurried away. Lucien strained to see where he went, but the thicket of masts obscured his view.
When he reached the end of the breakwater, slightly out of breath, there was no trace of his observer.
At opening time he scoured the nearby pubs, looking for an opportunity. But the few Frenchmen he saw were gathered in tight knots at the bar or at scuffed timber tables, talking quietly. He told himself it was a matter of picking the right moment.
He withdrew to a corner table and took out his notebook to fill in the details of the boats he’d seen in the harbour. The result, appropriately enough, looked like a coded message. To this he added snatches of overheard conversation: tides, the weather, the day’s catch. Much of the men’s talk centred on their families, or the pliability or otherwise of the local girls.
In the back of his mind he sensed anxiety lurking, the fear of failure. But he was determined not to surrender to it. He had been lucky so far. And if luck failed him, he would just have to be clever.
There was also the matter of the watcher on the quay. His imagination? But he had been right about the death at Olympia Hall, hadn’t he? Even so, the idea of somebody tailing him through the streets of Newlyn seemed far-fetched.
By the time the landlord of The Star Inn rang the bell for the afternoon’s last orders, he had a three pint buzz and a slight case of indigestion caused by a rapidly munched cheese sandwich.
More exercise and fresh air were in order. Time to plan, digest – and perhaps take evasive action. He ambled back in the direction of Penzance, enjoying the way the sun cast a coppery glow over the rugged greys and browns of the local stone. As he approached the town it became clear that the obvious destination was the church that surveyed the harbour from its headland. A good mixture of open space and potential cover. He could feel his nerves sharpening again.
He switched his original route, leaving the coast road and turning inland. His plan was to seed confusion, arrive at his goal in a roundabout way. He reached what appeared to be the town’s main artery – the curiously named Market Jew Street. The Nazis will change that when they invade, he thought with a bitter smile.
Then he revised the idea. Let them try. He had seen the English now, watched them in pubs and restaurants, on buses and the Tube. They reminded him of himself – generally polite, but more than willing to stand up for themselves. Savagely, if necessary.
Talking of which…
He glanced back, but could see only ordinary pedestrians. Plenty of people strolling beneath the brightly coloured awnings, many of them women holding the hands of young children or pushing prams. A few cars puttered up and down; a motorcycle with a sidecar. He paused to buy The Times at a newsagent’s called Clarke’s, then emerged and scanned the street. No sign of the beret – and nobody stooping to tie a shoelace. Maybe he should stop reading Simenon; go back to the Russian classics favoured by his father.
Nevertheless, when he saw Lipton’s Tea Rooms he went inside and clomped to the top floor, where he sat at a window table overlooking the street. With his newspaper and his cup of Earl Grey, he looked perfectly respectable. He almost laughed at himself: the spy peering over the top of a newspaper.
There was something, though. A shadow spilling from beneath an awning; a silhouette that remained detached from the others, long and lean. Stock still. Headgear of some kind, perhaps a beret. He paid for his tea and descended. The shadow had slipped away.
So, then. See you at the churchyard.
It was a beautiful windswept place, with a huddle of gale-bent trees guarding a church tower sturdy enough to
weather even the fiercest storm. Less than a century old, he decided. He wondered if the locals liked the church, or whether they sneered at it like some Parisians did at the bleached modernity of the Sacre Coeur, which had been finished just before the last war.
Inside there was the familiar echoing hush, the smell of incense and parchment. Sunlight set the stained glass window above the altar ablaze: Mary upright with her arms outstretched, hovering protectively over sea and ships. He walked closer. Gazing up at her, he had a sudden vision of bombs crashing through the roof. Glass exploding, the serene face splintering, Mary’s glowing blue robe smashed to smithereens.
He shivered.
Out again in the warm air, he glanced right and left. Nothing; just a crawling sensation of being watched. He turned into the graveyard, startling a blackbird that flitted away among the headstones, shrilling. It was the only other living thing in sight.
He shrugged. He had never been followed before – but he assumed that, sooner or later, shadows either faded away or stepped into the light.
Chapter 10
Gentlemen of the Night
There was a suggestion of evening by the time he headed back towards The Ship. It was by no means dark, but the shade was deeper, richer. The street was quiet – if there were any footfalls behind him, he would have heard them.
In his room he checked the chest of drawers and the remaining contents of his duffel bag, feeling only mildly ridiculous. Everything was in its place. He patted the notebook in the breast pocket of his jacket. This was about the most valuable thing he had on him for now. And it would stay on him, just in case.
He washed his face and patted it dry with the thin towel, then propped himself up on the bed and began to read. Inevitably, hunger and the simple need for companionship drove him back down to the pub. He nodded at Joss, pulled up a barstool and ordered a pint.
And suddenly there it was – the opening he needed.
It began with raised voices on the other side of the room. Two men loomed over a third, who was seated. One of the duo was Lucien’s old friend with the heart tattoo. His body was canted forwards, his entire attitude signalling threat. He poked the seated man in the chest.
The man stood up quickly. He was fair-haired, wiry but not tall.
‘Reckon that’s one of your French pals,’ Joss confided. He shouted over at Heart Tattoo: ‘Oi! None of that in here, Tom Perrow. I’ve barred you before and I’ll do it again!’
The Frenchman turned and walked out of the door. His aggressors exchanged a glance and stalked out after him. After barely a moment’s hesitation, Lucien followed.
The darkness outside was almost total and for a few seconds he saw nothing. Then he heard a scuffle to his left. It came from the narrow passage that ran alongside the pub, home to a couple of dustbins.
The tattooed man, Perrow, had the Frenchman pinned against the wall, grasping him by the shirtfront. Perrow was talking, jibing, mocking. His partner in crime looked on, fists clenched.
Lucien approached. ‘Leave him.’
Three faces swivelled towards him. Perrow said, ‘Back away, lad. I told you this wasn’t your fight.’
Lucien raised his palms. ‘We don’t have to fight at all.’
But the third man – the onlooker – was clearly itching to punch somebody. He stepped forward. Big, hefty. Which was good, as Lucien had learned to flatten the biggest one first.
Heart thumping, he waded in.
The man flung a wild fist, easily blocked while Lucien jabbed a quick right at his nose. It doesn’t matter how big you are – even if a child hits you on the nose, it hurts.
The man snorted and swayed but then charged. Lucien backed nimbly out of reach, pivoted slightly and kicked him in the balls. That stopped him – doubled him over. While he was still gasping Lucien jumped in and performed a vicious savate move: he stamped the sole of his boot sideways into the man’s shin, aiming to break it. The man went down and decided to stay there clutching his leg.
Perrow left his victim and advanced, spewing a string of curses. Lucien had the pencil out of his breast pocket. He reversed it in his fist and slashed it at the man’s face, more deterrent than weapon. Now he would have to do some real damage.
Glass shattered. A voice said: ‘Casse toi!’ Get lost. The fisherman had recovered – and broken an empty beer bottle against the wall. He was holding it by its neck; the jagged end looked far more dangerous than a pencil.
Perrow turned and saw it. And now he was hemmed in, the odds reversed. Two against one.
He wasn’t stupid. ‘Dirty Frog bastard,’ he muttered. He held up his hand. ‘All right, all right. No ’arm done. Just a bit of a scrap. This place is a shit’ole, anyway.’
He dragged his pal to his feet and after a couple of half-hearted insults they shuffled off, one supporting the other.
Lucien turned, switching to French. ‘You all right?’
‘Am now.’ He dropped the broken bottle. He was a very young fellow, slightly built, with a narrow clever face.
Lucien laughed for no reason and worked his shoulders, trying to shake out the tension. ‘I could do with a drink.’
The fisherman produced a pewter hip flask from his jacket pocket. ‘Here. Stronger than beer.’
Lucien took a swig and felt the wonderful sting all the way down. Calvados. ‘Thanks.’ He returned the flask. ‘I’m called Cortel. Lucien.’
‘Follic. Ronan. So here’s to you, Lucien.’ He took a deep swig himself, then put the flask away. He glanced around. ‘You know, they say there are tunnels under these streets, leading to the sea. For smugglers. “Gentlemen of the night”, they call themselves. Maybe that’s what our friends are.’ He laughed mirthlessly. ‘Gentlemen!’
‘What did they want with you?’
‘I’m seeing a girl over this way. They don’t like it. Along with my general lack of Englishness.’
‘You’re with a boat here?’
‘In Newlyn. What about you?’
‘It’s complicated. I’m down from London. Listen, can we sit somewhere and talk? I may need your help.’
Ronan nodded slowly. ‘I’ve heard rumours about you lot. Didn’t want to get involved.’ He shrugged. ‘Think I’m done for tonight. How about noon tomorrow? The Star?’
They shook on it.
‘In any case,’ Ronan said, ‘looks like The Ship is out of bounds to me now.’
Lucien realised that he wasn’t looking forward to going back in there himself.
Sunday. A less industrious Newlyn, but sunnier than ever. Lucien in shirtsleeves, glad he didn’t have to wear a uniform. He had slept well, despite – or perhaps because of – the ugly scene outside the pub. In the end the landlord had welcomed him back, mildly impressed.
‘That Tom Perrow and his mate have always been trouble,’ Joss said. ‘Doing shady stuff on the black market, some say. They won’t be welcome in here for a while, but I can’t do much for you outside.’
‘I can look after myself. Most of the time.’
Sitting opposite him now in The Star, Ronan Follic also looked relaxed and cheerful. He had informed Lucien that he wasn’t the skipper of his vessel – merely a crew member – and that he’d be leaving with the boat the following morning.
‘Tell me what it is you want. I may be able to convince some of the crew, if it’s worthwhile.’
‘Nothing major for now. My chief in London thinks you may be able to help us. Keep an eye on the French coastline. Tell us what you see. We’d like to set up some kind of permanent liaison down here.’
From Ronan, a short laugh. ‘You’re not the first to ask, you know. The French, the Brits. Suddenly we’re very popular. Trouble is, most of us just want to carry on fishing. We’re not interested in politics. The few who want to fight have been told to go to Falmouth, and then they disappear. To London, maybe. I don’t know.�
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Probably to the Royal Victoria Patriotic School, thought Lucien. Or somewhere like it.
Lucien reached into his pocket and took out a folded piece of paper, which he pushed across the table. ‘This is my address in London. If you’ve got anything important to tell me, find a way of letting me know. I’ll make sure the right people get in touch with you.’
Ronan expelled an incredulous and very French pff. ‘So that’s it then. It’s really happening. In all my days I didn’t imagine getting mixed up in something like this.’
‘None of us did.’
A short while later, he wished Ronan good luck and bon voyage. Then he stepped out of the pub and into the bright day.
A figure peeled itself from the wall beside the door. A tall man in a military beret. Who asked, ‘Comment ça va?’
Lucien replied automatically, ‘Ça va.’
‘I thought as much,’ the man said. ‘Welcome to Cornwall.’
Lucien scowled, angry with himself. ‘I wondered when you’d show up,’ he said sharply. ‘I didn’t think it would be so soon.’
The man continued in French. ‘Speak for yourself – I’ve been out here smoking for an hour. You’re good at making friends. Now I understand why Passy sent you.’
‘Who’s Passy?’
‘Don’t give me that. I saw you down at the harbour, taking notes. You couldn’t have been more obvious if you tried. Even your clothes look French. Muselier thought they’d send someone sooner or later.’
Of course: Passy’s rival in the Free French Forces.
He sighed. ‘Who are you and what do you want?’
‘It’s very simple. I’m Frédéric Baumer. And before you ask – no, my last name isn’t German. Muselier sent me down here three weeks ago.’
‘So I’m treading on your patch, is that it?’ asked Lucien. ‘Is that why you’ve been following me?’
‘I haven’t exactly been following you, although I admit I was curious. So what are you calling yourself? Got one of those fancy cover names? Métro station?’
