Agent of Fortune

by Kurt Magenta

  The man at the oars was Tom Perrow.

  ‘Good God,’ said Lucien, in English. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘Couldn’t let the Frogs do all the hero stuff, could I? Mending your ways, I think it’s called. Got any gear?’

  Lucien tapped his coat pocket. ‘Everything I need is right here.’

  ‘Fair enough. Let’s be off then.’

  Now things were moving too fast. He turned to shake Quentel’s hand. ‘A thousand thanks, Monsieur. I’ll see you again, I hope.’

  Quentel was having none of it, and wrapped him in a fish-scented embrace. ‘Bonne chance, jeune homme.’

  He let go, gripped Lucien’s shoulders briefly, and stepped back. Into the space came Sestine, who kissed Lucien hard on the mouth, her lips salty.

  ‘I won’t forget you,’ he said.

  ‘How could you? Now get going.’

  He helped Perrow push the boat back out into the surf, the undertow sucking at their legs. Lucien scrambled aboard and the Cornishman started rowing again; great creaking strokes. They were both soaked within seconds, but once free of the clinging breakers they made fast progress over the swell. Lucien turned his head.

  The figures on the shore had vanished.

  The boat rode at anchor – a lean, elegant vessel with a tall mast and a jutting bowsprit, her white hull slashed with a horizontal band of pale blue. She was about ten metres long, Lucien estimated. Getting aboard was no mean feat, with the little dinghy rising and falling at the end of its painter. He grabbed at the short ladder at the stern and got a foot on the bottom rung. It slipped off. He clung precariously for a second, got his foot wedged more solidly and heaved himself up. A shadow loomed above him and a hand reached down. He took it and felt the wiry grip as he was hauled aboard by Ronan Follic.

  ‘Can’t tell you how good it is to see you,’ Lucien said, once he’d found his footing on the deck.

  ‘Likewise, mon ami. I never wanted to get involved in this business, but when your friend from London came to see me, there was no refusing. After that one of the crew was taken ill and the weather turned merdique. Now finally we can get moving.’

  ‘We’re crossing under sail?’

  Follic nodded. ‘Can’t come over here in a floating fuel can – there’s no more diesel for the French. The Maris Stella here blends in with the fleet. A genuine Breton crabber. The Boche don’t even think she has the range for the journey, but she’s got a hidden auxiliary engine we can use when we’re clear of the coast. Tiens, you probably need this.’

  He handed Lucien the familiar flask of calvados. Lucien took a grateful swig, relighting his chilled veins.

  ‘There’s one complication,’ Follic said. ‘Instead of swinging around to the west and heading north, where they patrol the limits of the fishing zone, we’re going to cut straight through the channel below Ushant.’

  Lucien knew what that meant: an island surrounded by seething currents and jagged rocks. There was a line from a Breton proverb: ‘Qui voit Ouessant voit son sang.’ He who sees Ushant sees his blood.

  ‘Any way I can help? I used to sail a dinghy in La Rochelle.’

  ‘Just stay alert. If we’re spotted by a patrol, you’ll need to go below. There’s a false bulkhead you can hide behind.’

  As they talked, Perrow and another crew member were busy: securing the rowboat, raising the anchor, lofting the sails. There were three of these: a jib, a foresail and a mainsail, dark ochre in colour and rakish, Lucien thought, in the manner of an Arab dhow. Suddenly they were off, bumping through the waves. Follic went to take over the helm and Lucien stood at the port rail near the bow, his face whipped by wind and spume – wide awake, exhilarated, and unreasonably happy.

  The weather, however, was in a foul mood. The light had barely brightened and the sky was streaked with grey clouds, as if an angry painter had smeared them with the flat of a knife. The black sea was flecked with whitecaps. As the boat bucked like a rocking horse, Lucien clung on, wet knuckles ivory at the rail.

  To his left, the clouds began to darken and congeal, until he realised he was looking at the low sullen mass of Ushant. As they passed he saw its craggy flanks; coarse and threatening, impervious to the exploding waves. He knew that the sea was full of rocks: if Ushant lay in the water like a crocodile, they were now skimming across its jaws. Hopefully Follic was tracing a current that would shunt them out to the northeast of the island.

  An order rang out and the mainsail creaked across, bellying in the wind. As they raced past the island he saw the dark exclamation mark of a lighthouse, a vital aid in an area where the weather got far worse than this. The Maris Stella ploughed on, seemingly as keen as he was to get away from this place. Then abruptly, like a cork being torn from a bottle, they were in open sea.

  But they weren’t home yet.

  Perrow came to stand beside him. ‘Stefan – that’s the other bloke with us – spotted something over there.’ He pointed at a small dark blur in the distance. ‘Could be Jerry.’

  ‘Not another fishing boat?’

  Perrow passed him a pair of binoculars. ‘Take a look.’

  Lucien squinted and focused. The silhouette was both long and bulky, and didn’t look like any fishing boat he’d ever seen. Plus it appeared to be under power.

  ‘They’re not heading our way,’ he said.

  ‘They may not have clocked us yet. Or if they did, our disguise is working. We’re flying a white flag, as required. Maybe they think we’re just fishermen.’

  As Lucien watched through the glasses, the other boat began to turn, pointing its nose in their direction.

  ‘Here she comes,’ he said.

  ‘They’ll have to work hard to catch us, even with that engine of theirs.’

  Lucien went aft to alert Follic. Raising his voice over the wind, the young Breton replied, ‘I know! We can’t outrun them, but we can fool them. Look lively on deck with the others. Pay out the nets. From a distance it’ll look like we’re fishing.’

  Barely ten minutes later, a distant hum turned into a thunderous roar, and a Dornier swept overhead, almost skimming the top of their mast. Lucien remembered the road from Paris as the big plane clambered into the sky and banked, gathering itself for another run. When it hurtled down he braced himself for bullets and splintering wood.

  Further along the deck, beyond the cabin, Perrow was waving.

  Lucien got the idea, tilted his head back and waved at the plane too, grinning like an idiot. Follic waved alongside him.

  The Dornier raced over them and off into the distance.

  They never saw it again. A look through the glasses confirmed that the patrol boat had also peeled away, apparently deciding that they were too distant or too minor to bother with.

  The next morning they sailed into Newlyn.

  Chapter 26

  Back-doubles

  Is Dédé alive? The question pulsed through him like telegraphic code as he sat in that smoky room in St Ermin’s Hotel, being patiently debriefed by Maddox and Hayes. Vauthier, for once, was gratifyingly absent.

  For the time being, they told him, the Chorale circuit was off the air. Maddox was frustrated simply because the flow of intelligence had dried up. But for Lucien it meant that his sister lacked a protector. So he told them everything – even, this time, about Lili. He wanted news of her, and he felt that if Madrigal came back on line there might be hints of her existence, her shadowy movements behind the dry wall of data.

  Occasionally the debrief felt like a test. It was not just that they wanted details of Dédé’s network, but as if they wanted to somehow cross to occupied France through him, to sense the atmosphere. And in truth he needed to talk. His experiences were a pressure inside his skull, so he pulled the cork and let them flow.

  They leafed through the pages of the precious book, pledging to pass it on to Linguistic
s ‘pronto’.

  They sat silently through his account of the ambush by the Gestapo, his torture and escape. At the end of it, Maddox rose and crossed to him, leaning to peer into his face.

  ‘We’ll have to get that eye of yours looked at. You’re extremely lucky not to have picked up an infection. You could have lost it.’ He pulled back. ‘Fortunately I know a good man in Harley Street.’

  Finally, they let him go. As soon as Maddox escorted him out of the debriefing session, he asked for news of the investigation into Chenard’s death. But there was none: the killers, whoever they were, had vanished into the autumn mist.

  As if he was going to leave it at that.

  Mrs Shaughnessy welcomed him like her own son, drawing him into her arms, tears in her eyes. He sat with her in the parlour, where she was careful not to ask where he’d been. They reminisced about ‘Monsieur Georges’, his little ways. Chenard’s room was now occupied by a recently widowed gentleman who collected stamps. ‘Not what you’d call Continental glamour,’ she said, making him smile.

  That same evening, after he had washed and shaved and put on one his splendid London suits – an act that felt like a rite of freedom – he returned to The York Minster.

  ‘Have you seen Inky?’ he asked Val Dancourt, having extricated her from the over-eager attentions of an RAF navigator. She looked weary, and not especially pleased to see him.

  ‘Come outside for a minute,’ she said.

  They stepped into the damp frigid air of Dean Street. Above the low rooftops, searchlight beams probed the night sky.

  ‘Sam’s dead,’ she said flatly.

  He felt a dizzying chill. ‘What? When?’

  ‘A few days ago. He was found in the street, not far from his flat. They say he was knocked over by a car. Hit and run. Happens all the time, in the blackout.’

  She shrugged, but even in the dim light he could see that her eyes were shining. He put his hand on her arm.

  ‘I don’t believe it,’ he said. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  ‘But that’s just the thing!’ She was suddenly fierce. ‘I don’t believe it either! He told me he was still investigating the French boy’s… your friend’s death. He was getting nowhere. All that stuff about Maltese gangsters. He thought it was rubbish.’

  He felt his jaw tightening. ‘Who then?’

  ‘I don’t know. He said Solomon Cantello had the answers. But Solomon’s disappeared too.’

  Lucien thought for a second. ‘We have to find him.’

  He had not hesitated before saying ‘we’ instead of ‘I’. There was something very capable about Valerie Dancourt, and he sensed that she would want to discover the truth of Sam Goucher’s death, just as he needed to continue his long-delayed investigation into Chenard’s murder.

  She certainly knew how to handle a motorbike. The morning after their conversation, he rode pillion on the big Triumph as she thrashed it tthe scarred streets. Despite constant swerves to avoid roped-off bomb craters and avalanches of rubble, they arrived at the club even quicker than he’d done in the dashing taxi.

  Except there was no club.

  As Cantello had predicted, a bomb had dropped on the building, crashing through the roof and setting the interior ablaze. Half the façade had fallen away to reveal a blackened cavity, the other half left standing awkwardly like an unwanted guest at a party.

  ‘I somehow hoped he’d be back,’ Val said. ‘Now it’s like he never existed.’

  Lucien’s face felt raw and numb from the fast ride in the cold air. He stared at the building and imagined the tinkle of broken glass.

  Except it wasn’t his imagination.

  ‘There’s someone inside,’ he said.

  They left the bike on its stand and approached the wrecked building, hobbling over the rubble. The front door had been blasted off its hinges and was lying like a timber welcome mat before what remained of the entrance.

  ‘Careful,’ said Val, unnecessarily, as they passed under the sagging lintel into the lobby. The damask wallpaper was stripped and singed; the cloakroom a collapsed cage of timber. The shattered faux gaslights had provided the broken glass. A young Chinese man was diligently sweeping it into neat piles.

  The doorman.

  He stopped and gazed at them without surprise.

  ‘Mister Solly send you?’ he asked. His accent was pure English, almost BBC, with only a faint grain of accent.

  ‘No,’ said Lucien. ‘We’re looking for him. Have you seen him?’

  He shook his head. ‘He’s gone, they say. Hiding.’

  ‘Hiding where?’

  ‘Hardly a good hiding place if I knew.’

  Val asked him, ‘You were here when it happened?’

  Another shake of the head. ‘Sunday night. When I came back, it was like this. But I keep coming back. Too many people at home. Besides, this is my job. It’s important to have a job.’

  Lucien said, ‘The night I was here, a friend of mine was killed. Murdered. I think Solomon knows who did it. Is there anyone who might know where he is?’

  The young man peered down at his broom, hesitating. He muttered something under his breath.

  ‘What?’ asked Lucien.

  The man looked up. ‘Songbird,’ he repeated.

  Lucien remembered. ‘My girl,’ Cantello had called the singer. Apparently it was more than just a casual phrase. So they would take the ancient advice of Dumas: ‘Cherchez la femme, pardieu!’

  ‘Do you know where she lives?’ he asked.

  Solomon Cantello was biding his time, considering his options. There was money to be made on the black market, that much he knew. But he’d have to be careful – you didn’t want to stray onto somebody else’s patch, otherwise you’d end up with a knife in your guts. He’d already cheated death once this year, by being absent when the Nazis bombed his club. Wouldn’t do to push his luck.

  Meanwhile, he was back at his ma’s place in Stepney Green. This place was hardly safe either – half the street was bombed out – but they could shelter from Jerry in the basement while he worked on finding them a room further north, with cousins. Italian Jews always had plenty of accommodating cousins.

  He was in the scullery with a cup of tea and the paper, peaceably smoking a fag at the table, when he heard his ma’s footsteps shuffling on the lino.

  ‘People at the door, Solly.’

  He tensed. ‘What kind of people?’

  ‘Young people. Very polite. One of them is a lady: bellissima!’

  Solomon hesitated. Make a run for it? Into the yard, hop over the back wall next to the lav, scarper down the alley? But that would leave his mother at their mercy.

  Tell them to go away, then. But if they were rozzers, they’d be back. And if they weren’t, they’d still be back.

  He sighed.

  ‘All right, Ma. Let’s see what they want. Better go and wait in your room. Sounds like business.’

  When his mother had gone, he went to the bread bin, lifted the lid and took out an object bundled in butcher paper. He unwrapped the Smith & Wesson .38 snub-nosed revolver and tucked it into his waistband at the back, in the hollow of his spine.

  A few moments later, Lucien Cortel and Valerie Dancourt were sitting around the table with him.

  ‘Well well,’ said Solomon. ‘This is an unexpected pleasure. The private detective. And now he’s got a sidekick. How ever did you lovebirds find me?’

  ‘Your Chinese friends,’ said Lucien. ‘You were right – they’re as good as gold. And happy to help, once they realised we’re on your side.’

  Cantello gave a short bark of a laugh. ‘On my side now, are you?’

  ‘Look Solomon,’ Lucien leaned towards him, trying to create intimacy, laying his palm flat on ma’s lace-fringed tablecloth for emphasis. ‘We don’t want to step on your toes. As far as I’m concern
ed, this conversation didn’t happen. But we need to know who killed my friend.’

  Solomon shrugged. ‘Why? What are you going to do about it? Get your revenge? Go in there all guns blazing?’

  At the same time he wouldn’t put it past the boy. The kid looked different now: hungrier and bleaker. That youthful indignation had been replaced by something more measured, and infinitely more dangerous. Somewhere along the line, he’d seen things.

  The girl spoke. ‘The last time I checked, the police still existed. And now two people are dead.’

  Regret flickered across Solomon’s face. ‘You’re talking about Goucher. I heard about that. I even warned him.’

  ‘Warned him about what?’ said Lucien. ‘About who?’

  Solomon ran a nervous palm across his oiled hair. Finally he expelled a breath, as if spitting it out at last was a relief.

  ‘About the government, that’s who. The bloody British government.’

  They were being followed. Val warned him with a jerk of her thumb over her shoulder, unable to speak now above the guttural roar of the Triumph. Lucien glanced behind and saw it – a dark blue Austin Six.

  Of course they were being followed: Solomon’s place was being watched. Not surprising, given his story.

  Shortly after a pair of saturnine thugs had escorted Chenard from the club, a very different kind of man had appeared in Solomon’s office. Elegant, but hardly more subtle. He told Cantello to keep his trap shut – even as far as the police were concerned. It was a question of national security. One wrong word and Solomon and his girlfriend would find themselves in an internment camp for the duration.

  ‘So I played it his way,’ Solomon said. ‘Not a problem as far as I was concerned. The undercoat was already there: Solomon the Eyetie Yid and his dodgy club. Chinks, gamblers, crooks, and the odd vendetta to boot. Even the Old Bill bought it. Business as usual.’

  But by warning Goucher, Solomon had ironically piqued the reporter’s interest. The road to hell, forever paved with good intentions.