by John Harris
With his help, Woodyatt got off a telegram to Pullinger demanding aid, stating where he was and that he had a man he believed to be Redmond.
Darby was unhappy about staying in the area of the town and wanted to head immediately for Le Verdon. They could hear aircraft about and he was afraid that a bombing raid might prevent them getting across the river.
‘They’ve only to seal the entrance to the river,’ he said, ‘and nothing will get away.’
In the end they decided to seek a hotel outside Bordeaux but elected to eat before they left the city.
They found a large restaurant on the outskirts. As they sat down the radio began. ‘Ici Radio-Journal de France.’ Everything came to a stop. The waitresses halted and conversation died. The first thing on the news was an announcement that the Cabinet had met; that the government had decided that power should be given to some man enjoying the respect of the nation, and that Marshal Philippe Pétain had been asked to assume the reins of government. As the name was spoken there was a gasp round the restaurant.
‘God help France,’ Montrouge said in a flat voice. ‘It was said of him at the Ecole de Guerre that if he ever rose above the rank of major it would be a disaster.’
He was hushed to silence by the people around him and Pétain’s voice came. He spoke with the wavering tones of a tired old man.
‘By request of the Republic,’ he said, ‘I have today assumed the direction of the government of France.’ A few of the worn clichés well-known to all politicians followed, then he went on that his heart went out to the army struggling against an enemy superior in numbers and equipment, and to the unhappy refugees who were crowding the roads. He finally ended with ‘It is with a heavy heart that I say we must cease the fight, and last night I communicated with the enemy to ask if he is ready to seek with us, as between soldiers, after the conflict and with honour, a way to end hostilities.’
The dismal voice droned on until an ill-timed gramophone record played the ‘Marseillaise’, announcing to the listeners that ‘Le jour de gloire est arrivé.’
‘The day of glory?’ a disgusted voice said. ‘This?’
‘God help France,’ Montrouge said again, his voice sharp with contempt. ‘Poincaré decided, even in 1917 when Pétain was at the height of his fame, that he was a defeatist at heart.’
The packed restaurant had become still. The news had been totally unexpected. Then a man shouted, his voice crashing across the silent room. ‘Vive la France!’
For a moment the cry was ignored, then a few people responded until finally the whole restaurant was at it, yelling as hard as they could, in defiance, relief or sheer misery.
Dominique remained motionless, her face stiff, but there was a strange exalted glow in her eyes, as if she had suddenly seen some light in the darkness.
Woodyatt sat in silence. Not long before, Reynaud had said it didn’t matter if the whole of France were captured; the fight would continue from North Africa. And now had come this humiliating surrender. As they left, hurriedly scrawled placards announcing the new government were already appearing on the street.
They headed for the outskirts of the town. Darby was leading, driving fast and moving dexterously in and out of the other vehicles. Woodyatt tried to stay on his tail but at the first traffic lights a string of cars from a side road slipped between them.
Somehow defeat didn’t seem possible. There was no visible bomb damage and – apart from the crowds, the overloaded cars and the occasional weeping woman no sign of despair. It looked more like an overcrowded holiday season than anything else. The shops they passed were packed with goods, clothes, cakes, chocolates, perfume, wines – though the tabacs all seemed to have notices outside to indicate they had sold out of cigarettes. From time to time they passed ambulances carrying the wounded, but they couldn’t tell whether they were victims of air raids or evacuees from the battles in the North, brought to Bordeaux by sea.
Eventually they cleared the town and found themselves in sandy country wooded with pines. There were a few other cars and the noise of the engines prevented them hearing the aircraft. Almost before they were aware of it, Woodyatt heard the rattle of guns and a whoo-oosh as an aeroplane passed low overhead.
‘For God’s sake,’ he snarled, ‘I thought the bloody war was over!’
Drawing into the side of the road, he halted the car under a group of pines and they scrambled out. Montrouge refused to budge. Woodyatt didn’t argue. He dragged the old man roughly from his seat and, with Dominique on the other side of him, they ran for the side of the road. Pushing the old man down, Woodyatt put his arm round the girl and together they lay on the ground, surrounded by other people, all yelling with fright. Dominique made no sound, lying half-beneath Woodyatt, her cheek against his.
A stick of bombs burst a little further along the road then the howl of engines died. Woodyatt rose to his feet and pulled Dominique after him, leaving Montrouge to follow. Somewhere ahead, someone was wailing and he realised that one of the bombs had fallen on the road. A car was on its side burning and a group of people were staring at it. A woman lay a little further along, silent and still beside her bicycle. Then he saw Daphne Darby and the expression on her face set him running.
Darby lay at her feet and she had taken off her coat and placed it under his head. There was blood on his face and in the thick grey hair.
Dominique knelt and felt his pulse, then she crossed herself and lifted her face to Woodyatt’s. Daphne Darby understood. She drew a deep breath and her body stiffened.
Bending down and covering her husband’s face, she rose tiredly. ‘We’d better get on our way,’ she said. ‘I wonder if you’d be kind enough to offer me a lift.’
Five
A group of British soldiers in a lorry offered to bury Darby. The sandy soil was soft and the job was quickly done and one of them erected a crude cross on which they wrote his name in pencil. ‘Albert Francis Cummings Darby.’ No more.
The soldiers also offered Mrs Darby a lift to Le Verdon. She looked at the wrecked car, and then unhappily at Woodyatt and Dominique as if she felt she were abandoning them. Woodyatt helped her into the lorry.
‘There’s nothing more you can do,’ he said. ‘I’ve got a statement from both you and Frank. They don’t agree but that’s by the way.’
Her eyes wandered to the Ford where the old man was again sitting, surrounded by luggage. ‘It is Redmond,’ she said. ‘I know.’
Woodyatt didn’t argue. He gave her his address and told her how to contact him through Pullinger at the War Office. ‘It might be necessary to answer a few questions,’ he said.
As the lorry drew away, Dominique’s fingers touched Woodyatt’s and he drew a deep painful breath. It was already late and they had to continue their search to find somewhere for the night. There was a hotel near St Laurent, off the main road, Norman in style with yellow-washed walls in which bare beams were criss-crossed. It was in an area of sandy soil through which grew sparse grass that was broken by clumps of pine trees and tough-looking bushes of broom. It was clearly a waste of time trying to get a room. The lobby of the hotel was crowded and there were piles of luggage everywhere. The chairs and settees were all full of sleeping people.
The proprietor was permitting travellers to wash in the hotel. There seemed to be hundreds of them, almost all British, their cars drawn up anyhow among the trees. Scattered rugs, cushions and abandoned suitcases showed where earlier refugees had camped out.
They were able to obtain a meal but it had been hurriedly cooked and the wine was poor. The proprietor shrugged. ‘There are so many, Monsieur,’ he explained.
He promised to let them know if news of a British ship arrived. ‘I have a contact in Le Verdon,’ he said.
Dominique helped the old man back to the car. He had eaten a good meal and, Woodyatt had noticed, had polished off a brandy and soda very smartly. They got him established in the rear seat of the Ford and made themselves a bed from the abandoned rugs and cushions
around them. As soon as Woodyatt lay down, Dominique moved close to him. She did it in her usual cool, deliberate manner, as if she needed his warmth, even the physical contact with him, but resented having to be in any way dependent on him.
She was silent for a while then she spoke in a grieving whisper. ‘Poor Mrs Darby,’ she said. She shifted restlessly and turned to look at him. ‘Are you in love with me, James Woodyatt?’ she demanded. She sounded as if she were asking a dull pupil if he understood where Africa was.
‘I think so.’
‘That is how I feel. You have brought me back to life and I shall always be grateful for that. And for what you have done for me. And my uncle,’ she added. ‘Are you still determined to take him to England to be questioned?’
‘Yes.’
She sighed. ‘Nothing surprises me any more,’ she went on quietly. ‘Not you. Not France with her failures. Not me, with mine. Not my uncle, with his. Nothing is perfect. Everything is flawed in some way.’ She kissed him fiercely. ‘Which is why you must always understand, James Woodyatt. I’m not someone who fits into a slot, a pattern, a type. I’m me.’
In the distance they could hear occasional shots and all around them quiet discussions were going on about what to take and what to leave.
‘Bugger the suitcases,’ one angry man was saying. ‘The thing is to get aboard a ship. Suitcases will impede us. One bag. No more.’
A woman was wailing that she was having to leave her wedding dress behind while another was complaining that the silver she had packed so carefully had been lost. In their panic and haste, a lot of them were showing the triviality of the lives they had lived. Suitcases were being left half-open on the ground with clothes hanging out, together with picnic baskets, even trunks, some of them still full.
The sky was clear with the hint of a moon. As he watched the clouds, unexpectedly and from nowhere Woodyatt remembered Zamerski and the car in the road by the Darby’s gate. Sleep suddenly became impossible as he realised he had dropped his guard. After following them across half of France, their pursuers would hardly be likely to give up until all the British had left. They could well be among the shadowy figures moving among the trees.
He climbed to his feet quickly. His mind was still racing when he heard a telephone ringing in the hotel. Soon afterwards, he saw lights go on in the reception area and a figure moving down the steps. It approached one of the cars and he heard a door slam. Then there was a shout.
‘It’s arrived! It’s off Le Verdon now!’
As the proprietor of the hotel had predicted, people started running from the hotel immediately and began to climb into cars. Engines started and in the semi-darkness of the summer night voices were raised.
‘Wake up! For Christ’s sake, wake up! It’s arrived!’
Within minutes the first car moved off. It lurched over the uneven ground beneath the pines, it’s headlamps lighting up the shapes of those people scrambling in or out of other cars, tossing in rugs, suitcases and baskets. In no time, more vehicles began to jolt past.
Dominique was bent over Montrouge, her hand on his forehead. ‘I think he’s got a temperature,’ she said. She was grave and quiet and there was no indication that the old man meant anything to her.
Woodyatt stared at the old man, puzzled by him as he always was. He had a feeling he was playing possum. He was a tough old bastard, he thought, from a harder generation than his own. Despite his age, he had survived the struggle from Paris better than many younger in years.
Woodyatt refused to be put off. ‘Get him up,’ he said.
By this time the hotel had emptied of people. The last groups of British were hurrying out in ones and twos, carrying their belongings, and the number of cars had already dwindled considerably. Montrouge still seemed to be feigning sleep and in the end, irritated beyond measure, Woodyatt shook him hard. He came to life and struggled to sit upright in the back of the car. For a brief moment he looked his age and Woodyatt felt as if he were being a bully.
‘We’re moving,’ he announced.
‘Is Hitler at our heels?’ The old man had recovered quickly and spoke with a wealth of sly humour that made Woodyatt feel again that Montrouge had the full measure of him. He had sensed more than once that Montrouge enjoyed the panic among the British, most of whom had until now enjoyed life in the South of France away from the cold and damp of England. Their complaints seemed to amuse the old man.
All the cars appeared to have gone now. Some distance away the starter of a last one could be heard whirring, until eventually, as the battery died, it grew fainter and fainter and finally stopped. Soon afterwards three or four people moved through the semi-darkness carrying suitcases. All round the black Ford cars had been abandoned because of mechanical faults or lack of petrol; scattered among them were numerous thermos flasks, clothes, shoes, cast-off suitcases, and bags. One huge bow-topped black trunk stood wide open nearby, with what looked like a set of green velvet curtains dripping from it.
The old man was complaining about the earliness of the hour, but far too briskly to be convincing. Somewhere in the distance, they could hear shooting short bursts as if coming from a machine gun, then, closer, occasional shots, as if enemy agents were among the pine woods trying to stir up panic.
The old man was out of the car at last, stumbling about in the half-darkness.
‘Old men’s bladders,’ he growled, ‘aren’t quite so accommodating as younger men’s.’
Woodyatt and the girl stood in silence, looking at each other as he moved away from them. Then Woodyatt woke up to the fact that Montrouge had drifted off out of sight. He whirled in alarm. Despite Darby’s reassurances about the car outside the house, he had never accepted his explanation, but weariness and the nearness of safety had caused him to relax his alertness.
It was just light enough to see and, desperate and furious, he picked his way among the general debris. He was growing angrier with every second. Then, turning, he saw that the old man, a bulky figure in the half-darkness, had returned to the car and Woodyatt realised he had somehow passed him in the half-light. As dawn broke it became possible to pick out the line of the hotel among the trees. Then he saw that Montrouge and Dominique had been joined by another man. In the gathering light it was possible to discern the gun he held and the bright blond hair of Zamerski. He was alone. There was no sign of the thin man and Woodyatt saw that his left hand was heavily bandaged, no doubt from burns sustained at Marville.
Here he was, and they had probably been followed ever since the episode near the bridge outside Bordeaux. The French officer with the doubtful medals had obviously been another of Zamerski’s men trying to force them on to a side road where they could be picked up. Woodyatt surmised that he had directed Zamerski after them and provided the numbers of their cars.
‘Your name is Montrouge?’
Woodyatt stopped dead, his ears pricked to hear a confession.
‘Is it?’ The old man sounded remarkably cool.
‘I’ve been looking for you a long time.’
‘I’ve noticed.’
Zamerski stared at him and Montrouge shuffled in the long coat he wore. His hands were in the pockets, hugging it to him against the dawn chill.
The very next instant a shot rang out and Woodyatt saw the old man was holding the ancient revolver. There was a hole in his coat that was still smoking a little.
‘In war,’ Montrouge said to him, ‘you have to make up your mind at once. Hesitation will be the death of you, though I have to admit you did well at Marville.’
The shooting had been witnessed by no one save themselves. The hotel was silent and they were far enough away among the clumps of broom not to be seen. In the distance they could still hear bursts of firing.
‘That was quick,’ Woodyatt said. No wonder the old man had never been very perturbed.
‘I always was quick,’ Montrouge pointed out.
‘So I was told. And a good shot.’
‘That, too.’
‘Especially since you had it in your pocket.’
‘It was no trouble really.’ They were speaking in English and for a moment Woodyatt thought the old devil sounded more English than he had ever sounded French. Montrouge smiled. ‘I think we’ll make a soldier of you yet,’ he said, taking charge as if he had been used all his life to command. ‘But we’re wasting time. Don’t you think we should get rid of that?’
He pointed with the revolver at Zamerski’s body. ‘Murder’s murder, after all, even in the middle of a defeat.’
Woodyatt frowned as he stared about him, then Montrouge’s voice came again. ‘The trunk, young man. The trunk.’ He gestured briskly at the huge bow-topped black trunk with its load of green velvet curtains. ‘In there, with the curtains on top. Secured and strapped up, I imagine it will be a day or two before anyone thinks of looking inside.’
Angry with himself for losing the initiative, Woodyatt dragged the body to the trunk, then Dominique joined him and together they got the head and shoulders over the edge and pushed the rest of the body after them. It slid away to the bottom in a particularly sickening way.
The old man appeared alongside them. He had put the revolver away and was gesturing with his hand. ‘If you look carefully,’ he went on calmly, ‘you will notice near your left foot a bunch of keys. I suggest you try them.’
Feeling slow-witted, Woodyatt picked up the keys and found the one that fitted almost immediately. Strapping up the trunk, he locked it and pushed the keys into his pocket without thinking.
‘If I were you,’ Montrouge said. ‘I think I would throw them away.’
He seemed to have come remarkably to life. Woodyatt glared at him then, swinging his arm, he flung the keys as far from him as he could.
‘Excellent,’ Montrouge commented. ‘That’s the way to do it.’
‘You seem to know exactly what to do,’ Woodyatt said savagely. ‘I suppose you’ve been in one or two shady affairs before.’
