Mr Campion's War

by Mike Ripley

  ‘Rivesaltes is not an option for Lunel,’ Robert said, ‘or at least not a healthy one. The Jews there have already been transported north to the camp at Drancy outside Paris. Where their final destination will be I do not know and do not like to think. There is an alternative, though, if you are keen to go walking in the mountains.’

  By referring to ‘walking in the mountains’, Robert meant the numerous routes used by escaping British POWs or shot-down aircrew, but he was far too much the gentleman to ask for details.

  ‘There is another camp,’ he continued, ‘and it is a place you do not wish to go, but it could serve our purpose. It is the camp at Gurs, which is perhaps eighty kilometres from the border with Spain. It too was built to accommodate refugees from the Spanish Civil War, but Vichy has encouraged a much wider clientele to enjoy its facilities, which mainly comprise mud and barbed wire.’

  The camp at Gurs offered several advantages to us if not to the present residents. It was close to Pau, a fine city nestling in the approaches to the Pyrenees and, according to her husband, the home town of Astrid Lunel. To get there one would travel via Toulouse, which would have been on my itinerary anyway, as it was the hub of covert Free French activity in Vichy and I would need their help. Best of all, Gurs was far enough from Marseilles to be beyond the reach of Pirani and the gangsters of the Panier, and also, if we were lucky, the other shareholders in the cabal’s activities.

  ‘Can you get Lunel transferred to Gurs?’

  ‘Easily,’ said Robert. ‘My department can provide authentic-looking movement orders. No one questions when a German decides the fate of a Jew any more.’

  ‘So we can get Lunel into the camp at Gurs, but can we get him out?’

  Robert allowed his eyebrows to dance an impromptu jig.

  ‘I have an idea about that – though you will not like it – but your immediate concern must be Madame Lunel. That problem you must handle yourself, Albert. It would be difficult for me to interfere directly, without arousing the suspicions of my Abwehr colleagues, or indeed Vichy counter-intelligence, who have arrested far more German ‘spies’ than they have British ones, or even communist agitators. I will help in any way I can, but I must remain in the wings. The British Secret Service must take centre stage when it comes to Madame Lunel.’

  ‘Have no fear, old chum,’ I said, oozing confidence. ‘I intend to employ all our vast resources in Marseilles to rescue Lunel’s wife.’

  I really did not have the heart to tell him that the sum total of the resources I could call upon were a retired naval chaplain and a teenage girl, neither of whom had reason to trust me as far as they could throw me.

  ‘There is one thing, though. Could I possibly borrow a pistol?’

  On our journey back to Marseilles we spoke English because our driver did not, even though his central driving position made it impossible to ignore him. The pink, closely shaved neck above his shirt collar seemed to have a hypnotic effect on the both of us.

  ‘What did you think of my little Jewish banker? More importantly, what did he think of you?’

  ‘He is very clever and had me spotted as soon as he saw this distinguished profile,’ I admitted, turning my head to look out of the window at the countryside floating by, so that Robert had the benefit of my best side.

  ‘He recognized you? I appreciate, my friend, that you move in exalted circles, but I am surprised that you are so well known among provincial French bankers.’

  ‘Oh, he didn’t recognize me for who I am – he’s never seen me before in his life, and I’ve never seen him – but he spotted what I was straight away, and it was rather flattering. He saw me as hope; hope for him, his wife and their unborn child. The first hope he had seen in a long while. It was remarkable, really, as I could have been anyone: a spy for the cabal to see if he had talked; an undercover Vichy cop; one of your chaps from the SD or the SS or the Gestapo. I could have been any one of a dozen people not worth trusting, and yet he trusted me.’

  Robert’s eyes were fixed on our driver’s neck as he spoke. ‘You said he was clever. Perhaps he saw through the cloak of deliberate vagueness and flippancy which you have perfected over the years and realized that under that polished veneer there was a good man, a just man, trying not to be recognized.’

  ‘I said he was clever, not a genius.’ Like Robert, I also concentrated on our driver’s pink neck and our conversation took on the atmosphere of the confessional. ‘I think he realized I was his last hope. No one else would come after me, other than those wishing him dead. It did not really matter who I was: I was his last resort.’

  ‘And do you accept that responsibility?’ Robert asked, his eyes still front.

  ‘I prefer to think of it as the two of us together, working from different angles, being Lunel’s last resort.’

  As he considered this, Robert produced his cigarette case and offered me an evil-looking black cigarillo, which I politely declined. He cranked down his window as he lit up, even though the interior of the Panhard was so big it could have offered a separate No Smoking section.

  ‘You are assuming that the personal safety of Nathan Lunel is our primary objective, are you not?’

  ‘And his pregnant wife,’ I added, then recanted, ‘but I know very well what you mean. If the cabal’s money-changing scheme in North Africa is to be thwarted, then the lives of two little people, or even three, matter as little as a mote of dust in a giant’s eye. Having given my word, I would like to think we can beat the cabal and save the Lunel family.’

  Robert blew a perfect smoke ring, which hung in the air before being pulled out of the open window.

  ‘You are the eternal optimist, my friend, or perhaps just naïve.’

  ‘In the past,’ I admitted, ‘many people have cut to the chase and called me downright stupid. For the first time in forty-odd years, I think I am willing to concede they may have a point.’

  FOURTEEN

  Free French Connections

  Robert had estimated that it would take him three days to arrange the transfer orders and transport to move Nathan Lunel from Les Milles to Gurs, but my deadline was tighter than that: we had to assume that Pirani and the cabal had eyes and ears in the camp and, once Lunel appeared to be slipping out of their sphere of influence, they were likely to react violently. Most at risk would be Astrid Lunel.

  I had to save her, but first I had to find her, and to do that I had to break several rules, expose my admittedly paper-thin cover, and put perfectly good and innocent people in harm’s way.

  I needed help and I hoped it would come from a source of which Robert was unaware, for, although I trusted him, I could not expect others to. It was time to pull a name out of the hat, or perhaps the beret, and call upon the services of Olivier Courteaux, the Free French’s man on the ground in Toulouse. The camp at Gurs would be in his operational area, and Toulouse was a good 250 miles from Marseilles, which I hoped was well outside Pirani territory.

  I had no doubt that Courteaux knew I was in Marseilles, and that Corinne Thibus was the watch dog he had set on me. The girl had confirmed as much the moment she had identified my accent as ‘bad enough to be Canadian’ – the very line which Colonel ‘Passy’ had used in my briefing with the Deuxième Bureau in London. I had read our file on Olivier Courteaux before leaving London, and knew he was rated highly as a resourceful and intelligent agent who had, in peacetime, been a respected journalist; respected in the sense that he had written regularly and perceptively on the dangers of fascism in Europe, being particularly scathing about the rise of the Action Française party and the Rexist movement in neighbouring Belgium. It was said that the Vichy government, Nazi Germany and the Communist Party all wanted him dead, which was surely the best character reference a chap could ask for.

  It had been dinned into me that the way to contact Courteaux was via Sandy Nevin at the Seamen’s Mission, but only if I was in dire straits and on the strict understanding that my actions would not compromise ‘the good padre’
, as Asher had called him; and just thinking that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. I was pretty sure young Mademoiselle Thibus would prove the ideal conduit to Courteaux and, though I might have to go through the Seamen’s Mission to find her, the collateral damage to Sandy Nevin would be minimal.

  On that count, as a strategy, it was an utter failure.

  Robert and I agreed that the Panhard was far too distinctive a vehicle to risk being seen in around the Old Port area, so I was dropped off on the edge of an industrial area north of the railway tracks leading into the St Charles station. I was confident I could follow my nose towards the docks, despite the distraction of a huge tobacco factory and at least two distilleries where business seemed to be booming.

  I was suited and booted as a smart, suave Canadian diplomat should be, and that was fine as I walked through the St Lazare district, but the nearer I got to the Joliette docks I began to feel that I would be less conspicuous as the more down-to-earth working man Didier Ducret. My Ducret ensemble was back at the Hôtel Moderne, however, and I decided I did not have the time for a detour and a quick change.

  So it was the well-dressed Jean-Baptiste Hamelin who approached the door of the Seamen’s Mission, glad to see the welcoming yellow Q flag still displayed, but also desperately trying to remember if Corinne Thibus, when she led me there, had used a secret or coded knock. If she had, I had not paid enough attention, and so I settled on something I felt sure a former naval chaplain would appreciate: dit-dit-dit, dah-dah-dah, dit-dit-dit, the international SOS call sign in Morse Code, which had been first adopted by the German government several years before the Titanic needed to use it.

  My distress call, unlike the Titanic’s, was answered promptly; in my case by the sound of a bolt being drawn and then the door creaking open to reveal the cherubic face of Pastor Nevin.

  ‘My, my, if it isn’t our Canadian friend,’ he said with a thin smile. ‘If that is indeed who you are today. I thought we had seen the last of you.’

  ‘I am the proverbial bad penny – or should that be bad centime? – in that I always keep turning up and, as always, I am seeking your help.’

  ‘The last time you came here,’ he said sternly, ‘you brought violence into this house.’

  ‘That was not of my making, and I am genuinely sorry if I caused distress in any way to yourself or the Mission.’

  The door opened another six inches to allow the Pastor to vent his anger directly into my face.

  ‘You tortured a wounded man who was seeking sanctuary here.’

  ‘You mean the man who attacked and robbed me in the street? I did not torture him; I did not even raise my voice to him. It was your friend Magnus Asher who took the route of cruelty.’

  It was difficult to judge whether that had shocked him or confirmed a suspicion, but either way Nevin’s grasp on the door relaxed and it swung gently inwards.

  ‘You had better come in off the street.’

  ‘You believe me?’ I asked as I crossed the threshold.

  ‘I am aware that Magnus can be ruthless,’ he said quietly, avoiding my eyes. ‘He has had to be to survive this long, but he has always protected this Mission. You, I do not know, but I do not think you are a ruthless man, or a violent one.’

  ‘I will take that as a compliment,’ I said as I squeezed by him into the small hallway which doubled as a communal kitchen – evidenced by the lingering aroma of boiled vegetables. Automatically, my gaze swept up the open staircase on which Magnus Asher had appeared like a pantomime villain.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said the pastor, ‘we are alone. The Mission has no guests at the moment – at least not until after dark tonight.’

  ‘Please, Padre,’ I raised a hand to silence him, ‘the less I know about the goings-on here, the better. I have no wish to bring any further distress to the Mission. Do me one small favour and I’ll be out of your hair for good.’

  ‘When being asked for, favours are invariably small; when granting them, they tend to be less straightforward. What is it?’

  ‘I need to find Corinne Thibus.’

  ‘May I ask why?’

  ‘I would rather you didn’t.’

  Nevin raised his eyebrows.

  ‘Then I assume it is not Corinne you really want, but Olivier Courteaux.’

  If we had been playing chess, my next move would have taken some time.

  ‘Can I take the lawyer’s escape and say I can neither confirm nor deny that?’

  ‘Then perhaps it is a case of me knowing as little as possible, but there is something you should know – about Corinne.’

  ‘That she is very young for the work she does?’

  ‘That is certainly true,’ said Nevin, ‘but in wartime, the young always take the brunt of the hardships, and to survive they become hard themselves.’

  ‘It sounds almost as if you are suggesting that the girl could be dangerous.’

  ‘I am not suggesting it, I am telling you it as a fact. And, despite her youth, she is madly and deeply in love with Olivier Courteaux. If you do anything to endanger him, you will have Corinne to answer to, and you have no idea how dangerous that young lady can be.’

  The lady in question certainly looked young, but far from dangerous, as she served behind the counter of a thinly stocked épicerie on the Rue des Honneurs, though I pitied any of the glum-faced shoppers who did not have the correct tickets in their ration books.

  Sandy Nevin had reluctantly parted with the information that Corinne lived in the back of Madame Joubert’s grocery shop, earning her keep by helping out the ageing proprietress in any way she could. At first glance it did not seem that her workload would be too onerous, as most of the shelves were only half full of goods. There was, as always, a queue just in case new stock had arrived, but it comprised a dozen silent women waiting patiently more in hope than expectation, in stark contrast to the unruly crowds which gathered, often queueing around the block, outside every boulangerie each morning.

  Corinne was wearing a shapeless brown smock coat and her hair was scraped back into a straggling ponytail tied with a piece of red ribbon. I was sure she had spotted me as soon as I had entered the shop, but she made me wait my turn, ignoring me like a true professional shopkeeper, until I had edged up to the counter and she demanded to know what I wanted.

  I told her something off-ration and, without a change of expression, she pointed to a crate of unlabelled wine bottles, saying simply, ‘It’s Algerian,’ as if that explained everything.

  ‘Do you have any wine from Passy?’ I asked quietly. ‘I understand it is very popular in Toulouse.’

  Her face when it turned towards me was as expressionless as a blank headstone in a cemetery. ‘Then perhaps that is where you should go.’

  Having first convinced herself that I had enough cash for the rail fare, we left for Toulouse first thing the next morning. She had shown no surprise at my approach and had immediately recognized the importance of my dropping the name ‘Passy’. Among Free French activists it was a magical word, and almost as effective as if I had General de Gaulle himself at my shoulder vouching for me.

  Corinne, of course, showed no reaction in front of Madame Joubert or the women in the shop, but under her breath told me to return two hours later when the shop would be closed, and then proceeded to sell me a bottle of red wine whose origin was as dubious as its price was exorbitant. Almost as an afterthought, she advised me not to spill any on ‘that expensive suit’.

  I made my way to the Hôtel Moderne, where I changed clothes and identities, and it was as the far more suitably attired Didier Ducret that I returned to the grocery as night was falling. Corinne was waiting for me in the shadows of the poorly lit street and wasted no time on pleasantries.

  ‘I have telephoned Captain Courteaux and he is willing to meet you. I think he was expecting you, but he cannot leave Toulouse so we must go there. There is a train early in the morning. Bring money for the tickets and meet me at Gare St Charles at seven o’clock.
If we are questioned, we are uncle and niece and you are taking me to Toulouse with a view to entering a convent.’

  ‘You or me?’ I asked, drawing a look of utter disgust.

  ‘We have used the story before and the police have accepted it without question. Perhaps I look as if I am the sort of girl who should be in a convent.’

  I thought it both polite and safest to say nothing.

  In many ways travelling by train in Vichy was preferable to a rail journey in wartime Britain. There were no blackout restrictions and the absence of a curfew meant trains could run later, plus they were not overcrowded with bored and sullen troops moving aimlessly from one army camp to another. True, there were more police – many more – on the station platforms checking identity cards than you would find while waiting to board the 4.50 from Paddington. Most of them seemed to take only a passing interest in their duties and gave the identity papers of the shuffling passengers no more than a desultory glance. Although they were well armed, as officials of authority they were far less intimidating than the average Great Western ticket inspector.

  Our journey, thanks to numerous unexplained stops, took almost five hours, and the bulk of it was observed in the silence one might expect between prisoner and guard, or uncle and convent-bound niece. Only once, after some diplomatic questioning, did Corinne let slip something of her relationship with Olivier Courteaux.

  A precocious reader, the young Corinne had discovered Courteaux’s take-no-prisoners style of journalism while still at school, and idealism soon turned to infatuation, which would flower into happy-ever-after as soon as the war was over. Corinne was content to wait, though whether that was for an Armistice or Olivier’s acceptance of his fate was unclear. She added that ‘not being French’, I could not possibly understand how a woman could love a man almost fifteen years older than herself, which amused me, but I did not disabuse her.