Flawed Banner

by John Harris

  They ate canard à la Rouennaise with chablis, followed by coffee and brandy, and Woodyatt found he was enjoying what he had regarded as a duty. It seemed to be time to get down to business.

  ‘Mademoiselle Sardier–’ he began.

  ‘I think,’ she said, ‘that after a meal like that we ought to address each other by our Christian names. What is yours?’

  ‘James.’

  She was silent, her head on one side, as if she were trying it for size. ‘That is a good name,’ she announced. ‘Dignified. Strong. You had kings called James.’

  Woodyatt smiled. ‘Not very good ones.’ He paused. ‘Dominique, I want to know more about Georges Montrouge.’

  She made a slight movement of annoyance. ‘Why are you so interested in him? I’m very protective towards him.’

  His quarry was very lucky, Woodyatt thought. ‘If he was a British agent,’ he said, ‘he was a brave man and we want to get him to safety. Why are you so concerned for him?’

  ‘He’s all I have in the world.’

  ‘I’d like his address.’

  She smiled. ‘Not yet, James Woodyatt. He is my only relative and sometimes in such circumstances one is very much aware there’s nobody else who cares whether one lives or dies.’

  He studied her for a moment, puzzled. ‘Why haven’t you married?’ he asked.

  She gave a small wry smile. ‘He got away,’ she said bluntly.

  ‘There was someone?’

  ‘Oh yes.’ She spoke lightly but he suspected it was her way of hiding an old wound. ‘He was a doctor. I was training to be a nurse. He had a wife in the South somewhere. We became lovers. His name was Maillardrois. Etienne Maillardrois. And I was inexperienced enough in those days to think him wonderful. But he wasn’t really. He was not a very skilful lover and often left me frustrated and angry. I called him Monsieur Maladroit.’

  She drew a deep breath, surprisingly willing to discuss her life. ‘It was a poor sort of affair but it went on and on because I was too immature to know how to end it. Then my mother fell ill and I had to look after her. It changed everything.’

  ‘Did he ask you to marry him?’

  ‘He was always careful not to. Doctors know enough not to take on someone who will be a burden. Perhaps he wanted me – I don’t know – but he didn’t want my mother, too. I gave up nursing so I could spend more time with her. I became a teacher. Are you married?’

  ‘I was. It didn’t work out.’

  ‘What happened? You’ve got my story out of me. I’m entitled to hear yours.’

  He laughed. ‘When the war came, she decided she preferred navy blue to army khaki.’

  ‘Do you have relations?’

  ‘I have a brother and two sisters. All married. All with children. And plenty of cousins.’

  ‘How lucky you are! Yet you want to take away from me the only relation I’ve got.’

  ‘No.’ Woodyatt knew he was lying. ‘But I must find him.’ The time seemed to have come to be honest at last. ‘I have a confession to make, Dominique,’ he said slowly. ‘I’m afraid that what I’ve been telling you hasn’t been entirely the truth.’

  She studied him coolly. ‘Somehow,’ she admitted, ‘I never thought it was. So what is the truth?’

  ‘I have good reason to believe that this man who’s become your uncle by marriage isn’t whom you think he is.’

  She raised her eyebrows. She didn’t seem startled, but he could see she was growing angry. ‘So, if he isn’t Georges Montrouge, who is he?’

  ‘There is a very strong possibility that he isn’t even a Frenchman.’

  She gave a twisted smile. ‘You’re making it very difficult. Let’s start by being honest. If he isn’t a Frenchman, what is he?’

  ‘A German.’

  ‘No!’

  Woodyatt put his hand out but she withdrew hers sharply, her eyes bright with rage.

  ‘Nonsense,’ she said. ‘Rubbish! It’s not possible.’

  ‘It’s very possible. I think he went in Germany by the name of Georg von Rothügel. I don’t know how good your German is–’

  ‘My German is excellent!’

  ‘Then translate von Rothügel. Compare it with Montrouge.’

  Her eyes were glowing with a green fire and her anger gave her an additional unexpected beauty. ‘This is ridiculous!’

  ‘Is it? I have also reason to believe that before he became German, he was an Englishman. By the name of Redmond.’

  ‘I don’t believe it! Why would an Englishman become a German. And then why should this German become a Frenchman?’

  ‘He was a British soldier,’ he went on. ‘Sir George Redmond. Think of it, Dominique. George Redmond. Georg von Rothügel. Georges Montrouge. In 1904 he found himself in trouble and chose to disappear. We think the Germans had been watching him for years.’

  ‘It’s not possible.’

  ‘It’s very possible. The life in Germany you know so little about. The money he put into Swiss banks. He is believed to have given away Allied secrets before the last war and helped to train the Germans for this one.’

  ‘Monsieur Montrouge is an honourable man!’

  ‘Is he? He tricked his English wife into accepting the body of another man as his. He married Jeanne Picard while that first wife was still alive.’

  ‘You have no proof of this.’

  ‘We have all the proof in the world.’ Again he tried to lay his hand on hers and again she snatched it away. ‘Believe me. I don’t give a damn what he’s done. I just want to get him to safety, before the Germans find him and liquidate him.’

  She gave a soft snort of contempt, her eyes alive with rage. ‘It’s the most ridiculous story I’ve ever heard! You brought me here under false pretences!’

  ‘Until a few moments ago I was finding it a most enjoyable experience. I’m sorry it had to go sour. But believe me, I need to find this Georges Montrouge. To get him out of France.’

  ‘You seem to think the Germans are going to fight their way across France as they did in 1914.’

  ‘I hope to God they don’t. But, whether they do or not, there are always German agents to take care of him.’

  She pushed her chair back and he was aware of heads turning as her voice rose. ‘First of all,’ she said. ‘I think your story is the figment of a wild imagination and, secondly, even if it’s true, I think you want to put him in prison. In the Tower of London perhaps.’

  ‘They don’t put people in the Tower any more. It’s too easy to escape.’

  ‘Captain Woodyatt–’

  ‘I thought it was to be James.’

  ‘I think “Captain Woodyatt” is better under the circumstances. I begin even to believe that you aren’t who you say you are.’ She stood up. ‘Thank you for the meal. And for the roses. It was most kind of you. It’s a pity I have to suspect it was all for a purpose. Please don’t rise. I’ll see myself home.’

  Five

  By the time Woodyatt reached the foyer of the hotel there was no sign of Dominique. It was dark outside and silent, but over the silence he heard a peal of laughter and the faint drone of a high-flying aeroplane. For a while he walked about the streets in the centre of the town, wondering what his next move should be. Then, shrugging, he returned to the car. He seemed to have let Pullinger down. It seemed unlikely that he was ever going to meet the man calling himself Montrouge.

  The following morning he headed back towards Metz. Perhaps there he could signal Pullinger for advice. Perhaps Pullinger would even take him off what had suddenly become a distasteful job.

  Nicole was delighted to see him. Finding him waiting for her outside the library, she ran to him and flung her arms round him.

  ‘You came back! Did you find Montrouge?’

  He didn’t explain his failure. He drove her home and waited as she changed, then they headed for the dark streets to find a restaurant. She was in a light-hearted mood, and after they had eaten she took him to a dance hall full of soldiers and airmen whe
re they danced together, swaying to the slow time of the music. She was in a romantic mood, her cheek against his.

  ‘It is for my husband Claude,’ she explained. ‘I miss him very much.’

  Woodyatt’s mind was far away, still wondering how he could regain Dominique Sardier’s confidence. When the dance came to an end, they found a little bar where they drank a nightcap, then walked arm in arm back to the flat. There was still movement about the town, soldiers taking their girls home, a lorry growling past. Then a faint sound came to them and Nicole lifted her head.

  ‘What’s that?’ she asked.

  They stopped dead. It was impossible to hear the noise properly over the cheerful chatter about them in the street. Then suddenly, as if everybody had become aware of the noise, too, the chattering stopped and the sound came again, more distinct but still faint enough for them to be uncertain that they had actually heard anything. For a long time they stood still, then it came again, louder, in a low rumbling like a distant thunderstorm.

  ‘Les canons,’ Nicole said.

  ‘No,’ Woodyatt said. ‘It’ll be practice bombing. This area’s full of practice ranges.’

  But it was guns. Woodyatt was certain of it. Something was happening further east. Something was moving.

  During the night Woodyatt woke to realise that Nicole was moving about the kitchen. A sheet wrapped round her, she was making coffee.

  She turned as he entered. ‘You will go away now,’ she said, studying him with huge eyes. ‘Perhaps I shall go away.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I think so. These last few days have been beautiful and I had forgotten the war. But it won’t disappear.’

  He had to admit the truth of her, statement.

  ‘If it comes, it will come here,’ she added.

  ‘They say tanks can’t penetrate the Ardennes.’

  ‘Do you believe it?’

  Woodyatt pretended not to know. But he had a feeling the Germans would have thought of something.

  They talked for a long time. Back in his bed, Woodyatt opened the shutters so that he could see the sky. It was a perfect night with the stars bright and sharp. There seemed to be a lot of aircraft about and several of them passed overhead. Somewhere in the distance anti-aircraft guns banged away.

  It seemed to be noisy all night and when he finally fell asleep, he was restless, his dreams all of war. And something else, too, a vague and haunting worry that depressed him and made him feel afraid. It was as if he were in a nightmare, trying to escape but unable to move.

  He woke with a start to see Nicole standing in the doorway. It was already daylight.

  ‘You were dreaming,’ she said.

  ‘Yes,’ he agreed. ‘I was dreaming.’

  All the noise seemed to have stopped.

  ‘I’ve brought your breakfast,’ she said, placing a tray on his knees as he struggled to sit up. ‘I have to go to work.’

  ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Late. We overslept. You’d better get up. The wireless says the Germans have entered Belgium, Holland and Luxembourg, and begun bombing French cities.’

  ‘What!’ He sat up with a jerk that spilled his coffee. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘I can’t imagine anyone in France being in doubt about a thing like that.’ She sighed. ‘It’s true enough. I heard it. The army’s moving up to the River Dyle and there’s heavy fighting.’

  ‘What else?’

  ‘They say everything is under control. Is it, Jimmee?’

  Struggling from the bed, Woodyatt began to drink the coffee. ‘I’d better get a move on,’ he said.

  Her expression was bleak. ‘What will happen?’

  ‘We shall stop them. They said everything was under control, didn’t they?’

  She managed a smile. ‘French politicians have never been noted for their honesty.’

  ‘This time it’s the army. Don’t worry.’

  ‘I’ll try not to. I’m going to work. If I hear anything I’ll telephone you here.’

  As she disappeared, he peered out of the window. The sky was empty but he could hear aircraft. Switching on the wireless, he listened as he shaved. A particularly banal sort of music was being played, then, abruptly, it stopped and was interrupted by an announcer. ‘–Les Hollandais combattent très fort et les Boches ont trouvés une résistance très dure.’

  Belgium and Holland had resisted every effort by the British and French to persuade them to allow their borders with Germany to be fortified. Though desperately needing the help of the Allies, they had not dared show any favours in case the Germans had found it an excuse to invade. Now the Nazis had invaded without any excuse at all and desperate attempts were being made to stop them. The British, who had spent the winter continuing the fortifications from the end of the Maginot line to the coast with thousands of tons of concrete and miles of barbed wire, had now left it all behind them to advance in company with the French into open country devoid of any prepared defences. To Woodyatt, it seemed they had allowed themselves to be drawn into a trap.

  During the day, he headed for headquarters at Arras to try to find out what was going on. He was surprised to learn he was expected. They had a long message for him from Pullinger.

  It reiterated that it was felt in London that Redmond would know who ‘X’ – or ‘Charlie’, the man responsible for the leakage of information from England – was, and that Woodyatt should explore this avenue immediately he found Redmond.

  The second half of the letter concerned the grave possibility of the Germans using pilotless flying bombs. Woodyatt was inclined to think that Pullinger’s vindictiveness and his desire to vindicate his family was becoming out of control. But he had laid it all out carefully, repeating all the details he had given Woodyatt in London so that he would have them at his fingertips.

  Headquarters were anxious about the German moves but were by no means lacking in confidence. ‘We’re all right,’ they kept saying. ‘But we’re not so sure about the French.’

  On the way back to Metz, he called at an RAF forward-refuelling field at Longuyon. There was a flight of Hurricanes on the ground and the pilots were standing in a group smoking. They had been up since dawn and had run into a gaggle of German aircraft and shot two of them down.

  ‘We’ve been expecting it for nine bloody months,’ one of them said heavily. ‘We shouldn’t be surprised now it’s come.’

  ‘All the same,’ another one added, ‘there’ve been so many alarms and excursions and nothing ever happened, that now it’s hard to believe.’

  The heat was tremendous and, heading back to Metz, Woodyatt stopped at a small roadside bar where he managed to obtain a meal. When he reached Metz the city seemed like an anthill that had been disturbed. Vehicles and guns were all moving north.

  ‘The Germans are coming through the Ardennes,’ a French Transport Officer told him. In complaint he continued, “They won’t come through the Ardennes,” they told us. “It isn’t possible.” I could have told them that it was! You can drive a car through the Ardennes so why not a tank?’

  ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘We tried to stop them with cavalry. On horses! Name of God, what idiot expected horsed cavalry to stop tanks? So far, their only problem’s been the number of their vehicles. The armée de l’air reports that they stretch back for a hundred miles, packed like sardines.’

  The newspapers next day were to carry pictures of French troops moving forward, and of British troops advancing to a rapturous welcome in Belgium. Their vehicles were surrounded by girls showering them with flowers, beer, cigarettes and kisses.

  Reaching Nicole’s flat, Woodyatt was trying to find out from the wireless what the real position was when the telephone rang. It was Nicole and what she had to say was not entirely unexpected.

  ‘There was another man trying to find Dominique Sardier,’ she announced.

  ‘Another? Enquiring about Montrouge?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘From you?’

>   ‘No. From my friend. I’ve just heard. She told him the same as she told me. That there was a Dominique Sardier who moved away, who knew where he was.’

  ‘What did he look like, this man?’

  ‘Tall, she said. Very blond. Strong but good-looking. Who was he?’

  ‘I’m making guesses. Did he get Dominique Sardier’s address?’

  ‘She sent him to the house where Dominique used to live – where she sent you.’

  ‘Nicole, I’m going round there. I’ll call at the library later and tell you what I’ve found out.’

  When he reached the house near the Ban St Martin there was a policeman outside. Near him were two or three girls.

  ‘It’s Madame Grune,’ they told him. ‘The concierge. She’s been murdered.’

  The door was unguarded and the police showed no surprise when Woodyatt appeared. For safety, he showed the papers Pullinger had provided. They seemed totally uninterested.

  ‘It was robbery,’ the police brigadier said. ‘It seems she had a little nest egg. The girls who live here say she was always talking about it. Perhaps she talked too much.’

  He led Woodyatt down the hall and through the door with the red, white and blue checks. Two heavy black shoes and wrinkled grey lisle stockings showed beyond a small table where a half-eaten meal lay. The shape behind the table was covered with a sheet but unexpectedly the brigadier yanked it back for Woodyatt to see.

  Woodyatt had come across death before as a newspaperman but there was something particularly gruesome about Madame Grune’s wide eyes staring up at him from a livid face.

  ‘He strangled her,’ the brigadier said.

  There were what looked like cigarette burns on the cheeks. ‘He tortured her,’ the policeman said. ‘To find out where she kept her money, I suppose. Did you know her?’

  Woodyatt explained his interest. ‘Was anyone seen?’ he asked.

  ‘One of the girls heard her scream. Through the window she saw a man running away.’

  ‘What was he like?’