by Alan Hunter
Frénaye puffed a few more times before returning to his chair. He seemed at a loss; at last he gestured, turned to Gently with troubled eyes.
‘Monsieur, my position is difficult – in fact, more delicate than I had supposed. If I had known this morning what I know now, I think I would still be in France.’
‘Would a drink help?’
‘I would be most grateful.’
Gently poured and handed a glass. By now he also had his pipe going and they sipped and puffed in unison. But still Frénaye was hesitating.
‘So you have information,’ Gently prompted.
Slowly, Frénaye nodded. ‘That, monsieur, is the problem. It is information critical in more ways than one, and I am in doubt if I should reveal it. What I am seeking in my mind’s eye, monsieur, is very much what you saw in the Forêt de St-Gatien. And if that comes about, then I fear greatly for Monsieur Barentin’s safety. What sort of man is your Superintendent Empton?’
‘One of Cartier’s breed,’ Gently shrugged.
‘Then you understand. Yet, notwithstanding, I cannot entirely ignore my duty. Monsieur, would it be possible to regard this communication as unofficial?’
Gently puffed. ‘Let me put it this way. I’ll do nothing that might increase Monsieur Barentin’s peril.’
‘You will not necessarily inform this Empton?’
‘As much and no more as you would inform Cartier.’
Frénaye nodded gratefully. ‘Then that is satisfactory. Yet one condition I must insist on. This information came to me confidentially, and you must not insist that I reveal the source.’
Gently stared hard at him: Frénaye’s eyes didn’t falter.
‘Very well.’
‘Thank you, monsieur.’ Frénaye took a gulp from his glass, sucked once or twice at a dead pipe. ‘So then. It comes to my knowledge that Hénault is mixed up in some criminal enterprise, the seriousness of which he did not know when he agreed to it. Once implicated, he cannot withdraw, but is obliged to accompany his criminal colleagues, who have promised him a large sum of money for his part in the crime. Nevertheless, he is strongly of the opinion that he will be paid not in gold but in lead, and he takes an opportunity to communicate his plight and to implore assistance. Monsieur, we now know the nature of the enterprise, and can estimate the reality of his fears.’
Gently grunted. ‘And that’s all?’
‘Not quite, monsieur.’ Frénaye jigged his shoulders. ‘But, if I may, I would emphasize those two points, that Hénault is partly innocent and that his peril is far from imaginary. It appears that he has lulled his colleagues’ suspicions by a display of avidity and enthusiastic cooperation, but of course they do not trust him as one of themselves and any false move is likely to be fatal. His situation is desperate, monsieur, and his cry for help equally penetrating.’
Gently sat silent for a few moments. Nervously, Frénaye relit his pipe. Below, in the riverside drive, a few late cars were drifting by. At intervals, because the window was open, one could hear the faint lisp of a freshet in the river. Not looking at Frénaye, Gently said:
‘You know where they are.’
Frénaye sighed, but said nothing.
‘Well?’ Gently said.
‘Monsieur . . . I would remind you . . . I came here ignorant of the nature of Hénault’s involvement. From his record smuggling was suspected – which indeed is an offence sufficiently serious – but the whole facts are not known. And monsieur’s presence here did not suggest them.’
‘But you know where they are.’
‘If I may put it this way. I can perhaps indicate a certain area. Also, it may be that I have a clue which, to the knowledgeable, will suggest a location. That, monsieur, at the moment, is the extent of my information.’
‘At the moment?’
Frénaye shrugged and merely went on puffing. His face was a little flushed and wearing a mulish expression. Gently picked up the bottle and replenished the glasses; Frénaye acknowledged with a slight gesture.
‘Look,’ Gently said. ‘I’m not a fool, and you know I’m not a fool. If Hénault got to a phone the odds are high that he would ring a certain person. And that certain person might phone you in the hope of your knowing what was going on. And you began ringing me and found that I’d gone to Inverness. And now you’re here – with information that could, and should, have gone through the usual channels.’
‘Monsieur, I cannot stop you thinking—’
‘She came to Scotland – that’s why you’re here! She listened to that no-good ex-husband of hers and went off to try to get him out of his scrape. And you didn’t split, you came chasing after her to keep her out of trouble – and perhaps to head her off from me, in case there was a danger of collision! Where is she, Frénaye?’
‘But, monsieur—!’
‘Is she here in Inverness?’
‘Monsieur, I must remind you of the condition—’
‘Listen Frénaye, she’s playing with fire.’
‘Monsieur, to the best of my knowledge—’
‘I must know where she is.’
Hot-faced, Frénaye set his lips tight.
‘Then – I go to Empton.’
‘No, monsieur – no!’
Gently was on his feet, stalking up and down. Anguishedly, Frénaye jumped up and seized Gently by the arm.
‘Calm yourself, monsieur – please, please!’
‘Monsieur, she is in deadly danger.’
‘Monsieur, you do not think what you may be doing—’
‘Then where is she?’
‘Monsieur, calm yourself – please! – and listen.’
Gently groaned and threw himself back on his chair. He grabbed up his glass and drained it. Frénaye straightened his blazer, sat, edged his chair closer to Gently’s.
‘Monsieur, if you go to this Empton I shall deny everything, make no mistake. There is only safety for Barentin while his captors feel themselves secure. There may be a chance, perhaps a small one, that negotiations will succeed, and I, Maurice Frénaye, will do nothing to put them in jeopardy.’
‘Although, meanwhile—’
‘Meanwhile, monsieur, I am bound by a promise which I may not break. But this I can tell monsieur, that, while admitting nothing, I can assure him that no foolish risks are being taken. There is perhaps a waiting game in progress, with a listening post in the enemy camp. Opportunities may arise, who knows? But not if monsieur makes a foolish blunder.’
‘At least tell me where she is!’
‘Monsieur, I admit nothing.’
‘Do you deny she is involved?’
‘I will neither deny nor admit, but remind monsieur that I laid down a condition which he accepted.’
Frénaye was trembling slightly and a gleam showed on his flushed face. But his gentle eyes were determined and his singing French had become staccato. Useless to push him . . . and yet, he knew! As sure as they sat there Gently was convinced of it. Out there in the dark jewelled town or in the near or distant hills – at a spot on which Frénaye could put his finger – sharing the same stars: Gabrielle! Gabrielle, running risks of a magnitude of which she had no conception . . .
‘Monsieur . . . dare I speak of a certain person?’
‘I know she left France, Frénaye.’
‘Monsieur, I have talked to her on several occasions in addition to the one I saw fit to report. She has in fact been twice to Honfleur, once spending the weekend with myself and madame my wife. That occasion, I may now reveal, was while monsieur was yet in France.’
‘She was in the town!’
Blood rushed to his cheeks: he could feel the thump of it in his ears. Then . . . she had been so near in the nightmare of those last few days!
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘Impossible, monsieur.’
‘At least – a hint!’
Frénaye shook his head sadly. ‘It would have made bad worse, monsieur, and perhaps have been disastrous to mademoiselle. She was in a state o
f great depression and uncertainty. I feared that she might repeat her rash act.’
‘But . . . when all was explained?’
‘It was not explained, monsieur, or not to the mind of mademoiselle. What she saw in the forest had unhinged her. She wished to believe, but at first she dared not.’
‘You could have reassured her!’
‘Monsieur, I tried. It was for that she came to me in her distress. Monsieur, I talked to her, I swore many lies to get that dangerous impression out of her brain. Yet still you could see in her eyes it remained, she was living it again and again. She was seeing Cartier shooting Starnberg through the head with, it appeared, your entire approbation.’
Gently groaned. Yes, like that it must have seemed, while still she was supposing him a man of violence. But afterwards, when the truth was told, when she understood the misrepresentation . . .? Even then, apparently, that searing image could not be cast out by a babble of assurance . . .
‘What did you tell her?’
Frénaye’s hands rose and fell. ‘That monsieur was a man for whom such things were impossible. That I had known you for years, that I had seen your service record, that you were the respected friend of Monsieur Barentin. Also I told her you had filed a report on the basis of which there would be an inquiry, that Cartier would certainly be punished and yourself perhaps called as a prosecution witness. But at first all this was in vain. She heard me and wept. It was pitiable, monsieur.’
‘And then . . .?’
‘She came again, monsieur, and implored me to tell her these things once more. This time she listened without weeping and asked me many questions. Then she told me something not included in your report, a confused memory that had returned to her. She thought that at some point you approached Cartier, took his gun and struck him to the ground. Could this be true, monsieur?’
‘It’s true.’
Frénaye gazed for a moment, then shuddered. ‘My soul, and you are still alive! But that was the turning point, monsieur. Now, by her own witness, she could confirm that Cartier’s act was not condoned by you. Everything I could tell her was confirmation, and we talked of you, monsieur, by the hour. Only, alas, she was now in despair at the thought of those times when she had betrayed you.’
‘She was never to blame.’
‘Oh monsieur, she is proud! She cannot bear the shame of having been so credulous. Twice, three times she was made the instrument to set you up as a target for Starnberg. To understand was deep bitterness to her and she could not speak of it without tears. Monsieur, there must be time for these wounds to heal. Her pride as yet will not let her face you.’
‘But . . . something I must do!’
‘You must trust her, monsieur.’
‘Frénaye, for a month I’ve been living in hell.’
‘Monsieur, you must live there a little longer, and trust mademoiselle. There is no remedy.’
No remedy! Yet somewhere out there, within miles, she could be waiting too: had perhaps come, if come she had, not entirely on the account of the worthless Hénault . . . Set them together face to face, and could the miracle fail to happen: would not pride, shame, suffering itself dissolve and vanish in that moment?
‘Meanwhile, monsieur,’ Frénaye began. ‘With regard to the misfortunes of Monsieur Barentin—’
A tap at the door interrupted him; it opened to reveal Empton.
‘Don’t get up, old man,’ Empton said. ‘Just ask me to join the party.’
But he was already in the room and easing shut the door behind him. He eyed Frénaye with a tigerish smile, then went to help himself from Gently’s bottle. He was wearing a figure-hugging silk dressing gown that exposed a tanned, hairy chest.
‘Slainte. Aren’t you going to introduce me?’
‘Monsieur Frénaye,’ Gently grunted.
‘Ah?’ Empton said.
‘He’s also a guest here. Monsieur speaks only French.’
‘Ah yes, the French connection,’ Empton said. ‘One relies on you to pick up Frogs.’ Then to Frénaye in French: ‘Enchanted, monsieur. Do let me top up your glass.’
‘Monsieur—?’
‘Your glass, monsieur.’
He advanced the bottle towards Frénaye; then, with a bright smile, poured whisky in a stream into Frénaye’s lap.
‘Mais non – mais non—!’ Frénaye sprang up.
‘Just checking, old man,’ Empton leered at Gently. ‘In fact, I’ve dropped in for a couple of words, not necessarily for publication.’ To Frénaye he said: ‘So sorry, monsieur. But whisky does wonders for the nap.’
Frénaye glared and patted himself with his handkerchief. Empton took a seat on Gently’s bed. Deliberately, Gently turned his shoulder, slowly refilled and lit his pipe. Empton sipped.
‘Your attention, old man.’
Gently blew smoke at the ceiling.
‘I’ve been reconsidering your offer, old man, wondering whether it wouldn’t fit in somewhere.’
‘So,’ Gently said.
‘I think perhaps it might, knowing the heroic stances you favour. Also the Frogs would love it – just imagine the impression on wet legs here. Of course it depends on how the situation develops, whether some sort of stalemate emerges. I’m hoping it doesn’t, but if it does your little gambit might be the key to it.’
Gently turned to stare. ‘Go on,’ he said.
‘Consider cases,’ Empton said. ‘We find them, we bottle them up, then the Frogs get cold feet. So then we want a legitimate move to restore fluidity to the situation.’
‘In other words, to start the shooting.’
‘Naughty,’ Empton said. ‘But about right. Exchange situations are tense, little rushes of blood do sometimes occur.’
‘No,’ Gently said.
Empton clicked his tongue. ‘Don’t rush to decisions, old man,’ he said. ‘You aren’t reading the small print. This way our Yiddisher friend stands a snowball’s chance of walking out. To a point, I think I can control my nervousness in the presence of the ungodly. My promise that he gets clear before excitement takes over.’
‘More likely he’ll be caught in crossfire.’
‘So that’s a chance,’ Empton said. ‘But leave him there and no chance – he’s booked for an interview with Father Abraham.’
‘I’ll do it, but on my terms.’
‘Ah, these sentimentalists,’ Empton said. If you do it on any terms, old man, your neck will be stuck out to infinity. So what’s it to you? I take it you can bear to see the ungodly laid to rest.’
‘My terms or none.’
‘Well, well,’ Empton said. ‘Who says the Boy’s Own Paper is dead?’ He smiled winningly. ‘Very well, old man, what ho and all that.’
‘My terms are that Guthrie is in control.’
Empton sipped. His eyes were small. ‘Not so naive then, are we, old man?’
‘Not so naive,’ Gently said.
‘Ah,’ Empton said. ‘Ah. Hero having second thoughts. I thought you were quick off the mark, old man, with your offer to exchange necks.’
Gently said nothing.
Empton finished his drink. Suddenly, he jerked the glass through the open window. One heard its faint shatter on the pavement below. Empton showed his teeth.
‘Well, thank you, old man. Just thought I’d drop round for the chat. Enjoy your stay.’
Gently said nothing.
Empton sighed, rose and left.
* * *
The door closed, and another slammed a few steps down the corridor. Then there was silence for a while, the only interruption a car’s horn hooting. At last Frénaye glanced timidly at Gently.
‘Monsieur, I do understand a little English . . .’
Gently hunched, knocked out his pipe. He poured another finger, draining the bottle.
‘That man is your Empton . . .?’
‘That’s him.’
‘Alas! Poor Monsieur Barentin. Monsieur, I told you that Cartier frightened me, but compared with this man he is a chil
d.’ Frénaye hesitated. ‘Can it be true that you have offered yourself as exchange hostage?’
‘After Starnberg, it might tempt them.’
‘But monsieur, it is complete madness.’ Frénaye gazed in distress. ‘They will agree, but only to shoot you. They will never give up Monsieur Barentin. No, no, monsieur, do not think of it, there must be other ways yet to try. This Empton knows it cannot succeed, he wishes only to use you to begin a slaughter.’
‘Guthrie will prevent it.’
‘Still, they will shoot you, you will be killed for no purpose whatever.’
‘At the moment I can think of no better alternative.’
‘Then, monsieur, you must be in love with death.’
Gently drank. Frénaye chewed on his pipe. In the room was the stink of spilled whisky. The Frenchman was holding his face averted, keeping his eyes to himself.
‘Listen, monsieur . . . if we could get to them first, might there not be a way then?’
‘Can we get to them first?’
‘I have indeed information which, it is possible, may lead us to them. Then, when we have reconnoitred, some plan of action may occur to us. This at least will have greater purpose than the useless sacrifice you are contemplating.’
Gently was silent a moment. Finally he said:
‘What have you got?’
‘Monsieur, this will go no further . . .’
‘It won’t go to Monsieur Empton.’
‘Then it is this. The area we are seeking is in the neighbourhood of Invergarry, where they are holding Monsieur Barentin in a remote and deserted house. Of the location of the latter I know only that it is near an old road to Skye.’
‘To Skye!’
‘Does monsieur know it?’
Gently shook his head and reached for the phone. After an interval a porter knocked to deliver a dusty map.
‘This is all we have, sir—’
‘Wait,’ Gently said. ‘What do you know of old roads to Skye?’
The man looked blank. ‘They’re all old, sir. I have not heard tell of a new one.’
‘Perhaps a road that has been abandoned?’
‘Ach, I think I’m with you now! After the war they built a fine new highway between Invergarry and Lochalsh. The old road went by way of Glengarry, but it will be in a sad state now.’
