Mr Campion's War

by Mike Ripley

  ‘Madame Lunel,’ I said, ‘I told you I would reunite you with your husband, but we must plan for the next stage of our journey and we must do so with all haste.’

  I was not sure either of them had heard a word I had said. Astrid was now stroking her husband’s head as he bent over to rub his cheek over the curve of his wife’s pregnant belly.

  ‘Jean-Baptiste is right, my love,’ he murmured dreamily, ‘we have to leave Pau.’

  ‘Who is Jean-Baptiste?’ asked Astrid, equally dreamily.

  ‘Your wife knows me as Didier Ducret,’ I said quickly. ‘I answer to both names.’

  ‘And no doubt several others,’ said Lunel.

  I refrained from telling Lunel how right he was; and from offering him any examples.

  ‘When we get to Spain, I will reveal my true identity,’ I offered, ‘but only if you insist, and only then if you ply me with dry sherry. Until then, call me what you will, but you must accept me as your tour guide and leader.’

  ‘He has looked after me well so far,’ said Astrid, ‘and he has kept his word about bringing you home to me.’

  I nodded my appreciation of the generous character reference and half expected her husband to second it, which only proves it never pays to be too pleased with yourself.

  ‘He is being well rewarded for his trouble. In fact, he has charged a very high price.’

  I knew Lunel had been through a lot and was speaking more out of nervous relief rather than anger, but even so I decided to lay down the law.

  ‘My reward is to foil a criminal conspiracy whereby evil men will profit, for me it is a duty and an obligation. Your reward is three tickets to freedom. Three, M’sieur Lunel: remember your unborn child. That is your duty, your obligation now. If you think we have made an unfair bargain, then perhaps we should renegotiate terms.’

  He looked at his wife and slipped an arm around her shoulders.

  ‘I am sorry if I sound ungrateful. You will get my ledger just as soon as my wife is safely in Spain.’

  ‘When we are all safe, my dear,’ Astrid corrected him, but it was to me that she flashed a warning look.

  ‘The ledger is here in Pau?’

  ‘It is nearby,’ he said carefully. ‘But you will not find it without my help.’

  I could not help but bridle at that. ‘I was not planning to steal it, merely trying to ascertain that it was at hand, because we cannot stay here long. I suggest you ask your wife if she would kindly draw you a bath and find you a change of clothes. Outdoor clothes, a good coat and stout shoes or boots. We will have some rough walking to do. Take a bag, but essentials only. Some food would be good and a bottle of brandy perhaps. It will not, I am afraid, be an easy journey for one in your condition, madam.’

  ‘Let me worry about my condition, m’sieur.’ Astrid patted her midriff bulge. ‘My little passenger will not slow us down.’

  I had my reservations about that but kept them to myself.

  ‘Are we allowed to know where you are taking us?’ Lunel asked.

  ‘I don’t see why not; you should learn the route we intend to follow.’ I left off the caveat ‘in case anything happens to me’. ‘Do you have a map of the Lourdes area, out towards Cauterets? As large a scale as possible.’

  They both looked as puzzled as if I had asked them to describe a spiral staircase without using their hands, but Nathan snapped out of the trance first.

  ‘Madame Henneuse will have. She and her husband were great cyclists before the last war. I doubt if the terrain has changed much since then.’

  ‘Not where we’re going,’ I agreed.

  Astrid busied herself preparing Nathan’s ablutions before disappearing downstairs to raid Madame Henneuse’s map-drawer. She returned clutching a faded, much-folded road map with a torn cover, which extolled the health benefits of a day cycling out on the open road, but also the labour-saving benefits of the latest Singer sewing machine, should the lady of the house decide to stay at home.

  When Nathan finally emerged from the bathroom, he was wearing a wool dressing gown over rather gruesome lime-green silk pyjamas, his cheeks red and stinging from an aromatic aftershave and his remaining hair wet and slicked back, revealing a large proportion of exposed dome.

  Astrid had cleared the dining table and I laid out the map, regretting only that I did not have a swagger stick or pointer, as that would make it seem more of a proper briefing.

  ‘We go by car to Lourdes and then—’

  ‘The Song of Bernadette,’ said Nathan.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘The Song of Bernadette. It’s a novel about Catholics and Lourdes, written by a Czech Jew called Franz Werfel. He used to live near Marseilles.’

  ‘Used to?’

  He shrugged his shoulders. ‘Who knows now? He was a writer whose books were burned by the Nazis.’

  ‘That alone is reason enough to fight them,’ I said, ‘and perhaps he got out before the round-ups. What we have to do is make sure we get out while we can. That does not involve making side visits to places of interest such as Lourdes, whether out of literary curiosity or religious devotion. We go from there to Cauterets.’

  My finger traced the road south, the lines on the map getting thinner and the contours more intimidating. ‘Beyond Cauterets there’s a tourist spot with a view – a “panorama” – known as the Pont d’Espagne. There we leave the car and trust to our sturdy footwear, because from there we will be hiking, mostly uphill, carrying anything we might need, so if you have rucksacks all the better. Should we need it, and I think we might, there is a shepherd’s refuge – a hut – where we can stay overnight. It is not, I am told, equipped with many comforts, in fact none at all, but the conditions cannot be worse than those you have had to suffer in recent weeks. From there, a sprightly step up a mountain path and we can look over into Spain. By which time our Spanish guide should be looking down on us. His name will be Vidal, by the way.’

  ‘You are taking us on the old pilgrims’ way, aren’t you?’ said Lunel.

  ‘One of them. There were many routes over the Pyrenees for those on pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela. We are treading in the footsteps of the devout.’

  ‘We are hardly pilgrims going about our devotions, we are fleeing for our lives as the Jews fled out of Egypt to escape Pharaoh.’

  ‘I hope that doesn’t make me Moses,’ I said. ‘That is altogether far too much responsibility.’

  Madame Henneuse, with supreme ingenuity, had conjured up a spicy stew with chunks of belly pork, and joined us for what she had guessed would be the Lunels’ last meal in Pau. There was wine, naturally, and a good bottle too, from Nathan’s own stock which she had guarded closely in the months he had been gone. As he opened it and proposed a toast, wishing ourselves a bon voyage, he told Madame Henneuse to drink or sell the remaining bottles and not to hold any foolish notions about saving things for their return.

  The old woman sniffed loudly and dabbed her eyes with a ball of lace handkerchief when Astrid added that she should treat the furniture as her own and if need be sell it or burn it as fuel, should the winters be harsh.

  Miraculously, she produced a small bag of coffee beans which, she said, she had ‘hidden away like a squirrel’, and Astrid, squealing in delight at the prospect of a pot of real coffee, grabbed them and hurried off to the kitchen to brew it. Her husband offered to help and followed her.

  When we were alone at the table, Madame Henneuse spoke to me directly and with a steely passion.

  ‘The way we have treated our Jews is shameful. The Lunels have always been kind and generous people. When my husband was killed by the Boches, M’sieur Nathan found me the position as concierge and always made sure I had money for the doctor, even for the church, though it was not his religion. I look on him as a brother; when he took Astrid for his wife, he asked my opinion before he did so.

  ‘At first I hesitated, because she is so much younger than he is, but I could see that she felt for him as much as h
e did for her. They have not had long together and now there is a child on the way. Astrid is strong, Nathan is not as strong as he thinks he is. You will take care of them, m’sieur? Whoever you are, you must.’

  ‘I will do my very best, madame,’ I said, and then there was the sound of the door buzzer being pressed repeatedly and Madame Henneuse froze in her seat.

  ‘Allow me,’ I said, rising from the table and closing my hand around the butt of the pistol in my jacket pocket.

  ‘Who is this?’ Astrid’s voice was nervous and high-pitched.

  ‘This is Professor Haberland,’ I said quickly, taking my hand out of my pocket. ‘He is an ally.’

  ‘He is a German,’ said Lunel.

  Having taken no more than two steps into the dining room, Robert was faced with a scene which could have been mistaken for an interrupted séance. There was Madame Henneuse, the fraudulent medium, seated at the table, quivering nervously, as if her trickery had just been exposed. Behind her, clutching each other in the kitchen doorway, the Lunels were playing the part of the hidden assistants, suddenly revealed, who made the creaking and knocking noises at the appropriate times and cooked up ectoplasm as and when required. All that was missing was the sickly smell of scented candles.

  ‘Do you have it?’ Robert asked me.

  His tone indicated that he was anxious, not to say nervous, which in turn made me nervous, and my right hand remained deep in my jacket pocket clutching my cold metal comforter.

  ‘I’m told it is nearby and easily accessed.’

  ‘Then get it and go. Go now if you can.’

  ‘He is frightening me,’ Astrid told her husband.

  Robert drew himself up and nodded in turn to both women, while I offered a silent prayer that he would refrain from clicking his heels in salute.

  ‘Madame Lunel and Madame …’ he began.

  ‘Henneuse; loyal family retainer and concierge,’ I supplied in English.

  ‘Forgive me if my arrival has frightened you,’ said Robert in French. ‘I wish you no harm, in fact quite the opposite. I wish you a safe journey out of France, but I urge you to go quickly. Now, if possible; but by first light at the latest.’

  ‘It is the invasion?’ Nathan found his voice.

  ‘Invasion?’ Madame Henneuse’s face began to melt.

  ‘Of North Africa,’ I said quickly, before her hopes got too high.

  ‘Somehow the Americans have assembled an invasion fleet of seven hundred ships which have sailed across the Atlantic and are landing troops in Morocco and Algeria.’

  ‘An unpleasant surprise for you, I imagine,’ I said.

  ‘A surprise, but not an unexpected one.’ Robert was in no mood for flippancy. ‘As a security measure, the German army is already crossing from the Occupied Zone to take control of Vichy France. I expect that our advance armoured units will be entering Marseilles at around four o’clock in the morning. By lunchtime, there will be loudspeaker vans on the streets of Pau announcing the end of Vichy; a curfew will no doubt be imposed and movement restricted.’

  Lunel was automatically suspicious of such news coming from a German he had only seen previously in SS uniform.

  ‘What if the Americans fail in their landings?’

  ‘That is unlikely. In the short term, the landings will face only half-hearted opposition from French troops, many of whom will not want to die for Vichy and will go over to the Free French.’

  ‘Vive la France!’ said a joyless Madame Henneuse, folding her arms and planting her elbows on the table in a stubbornly patriotic gesture, indicating ‘and there’s an end to the matter’.

  ‘The Americans will secure their beach-heads one way or another and begin landing men and material. The Afrika Korps is already hard-pressed in Egypt and Libya and will now have a new enemy in the west. Supplying them will become impossible as the Allies pour ships into the Mediterranean and establish superiority in the air. Our Italian friends will not prove much of a hindrance to them, and the war in North Africa will soon be over.’

  ‘A fact which will not be lost on our friends in the cabal,’ I added.

  Astrid tugged at her husband’s arm.

  ‘What is this cabal he speaks of?’

  ‘The men I was forced to work for,’ said Lunel. ‘The depositors, as I called them; the names in my ledger.’

  She stared, unblinking, towards Robert and me, as if we had entered under the door rather than through it.

  ‘The ledger is what they want, isn’t it? It is the only reason these men are helping us. What else would make a German and an Englishman work together? Do they want those bank accounts for themselves?’

  I felt Robert stiffen next to me, but before he could leap to our defence, Madame Henneuse, of all people, did so.

  ‘My God, girl, does it matter why they are helping you? Who else is going to? France’s Israelites have few friends now, and if the Boches are coming, they will have many more enemies.’

  The old woman levered herself up from her seat, placed both her hands on her stomach, pushed out her hips and faced Astrid.

  ‘You are no longer allowed to think about anything except saving what you carry inside you. If these men can get you and your child to safety, go with them. Do not question their reasons. Do not question anything. Just go!’

  Lunel took his wife’s hand and kissed it. ‘Madame Henneuse talks complete sense, my dear. Start packing.’

  ‘Good,’ said Robert. ‘Now I will leave you to your preparations. It is best that I do not know the details of your journey. Will you see me out …’ he paused and then remembered, ‘Didier.’

  ‘With pleasure, Professor.’

  As we walked down the stairs to the front door and Madame Henneuse’s temporarily deserted concierge outpost, I asked Robert how he had gained entry.

  ‘I had a local man watching the place. Being a good German, he was efficient and acquired a spare key from the electricians who rewired the building last year. The Abwehr does not kick doors down unless it really has to; unlike the Gestapo, who do it for fun.’

  ‘It is odd to hear the words “Gestapo” and “fun” uttered in the same breath,’ I said. ‘I suppose we’ll have them on our trail now like a pack of Beagles.’

  Robert put on his schoolmaster face. ‘Do not make light of the Gestapo, Albert. I strongly suspect that some of the accounts in Lunel’s ledger belong to high-ranking officers and, like all the cabal, they will think that their investment is about to pay off in dollars. You must hurry and get the ledger to the Allies. You are sure Lunel has it?’

  ‘So he says.’

  ‘Make sure you relieve him of it before you turn him loose in Spain.’

  ‘And if he refuses to hand it over?’

  ‘Shoot him and take it,’ Robert said without hesitation.

  ‘I doubt that will be necessary, Nathan cares too much about his unborn child. And in any case, I could not shoot an unarmed man.’

  ‘Do not be so sure, Albert. When the time comes, you will do what you have to do.’

  ‘And on that cheery note, old chum, we had better say goodbye again.’

  As we solemnly shook hands, Robert pulled me closer in. ‘Good luck, my friend. Remember, you will be alone until you reach Spain. Anyone following you is almost certainly an enemy. You carry the fortunes of many dangerous men with you; think of it like that. And they may be closer than you know.’

  ‘You mean among the invading Wehrmacht?’

  ‘Perhaps, but I was thinking more of the scum Lunel associated with in Marseilles.’

  ‘Pirani?’

  ‘I’m sure he would slit your throat if he could, but he is incapacitated with a bullet in his leg. It is his attack-dog, the Britisher, who worries me more.’

  ‘Magnus Asher?’

  ‘Yes. A deserter, a traitor, a crook and almost certainly the man who tortured Pastor Nevin before killing him. My men in Marseilles tell me that he has not been seen for two days. For all we know, he could be here, right now.
’

  Robert’s rather gloomy valediction had me glancing over my shoulder as I herded the Lunels through the dark streets to where I had left the Citroën. Robert had been as good as his word and the car had been refuelled, with a spare can in the boot.

  I insisted that we all tried to get a few hours’ sleep before we departed, if only because I was exhausted and knew I had to drive the next day. I doubted very much that the Lunels would attempt to do a moonlight flit without me, but just to be sure, I slept on the chaise longue only a yard or so from their bedroom door. They would have had to shin down a drainpipe or virtually step over me to make their escape, and I doubted Astrid, in her condition, could do either.

  We sneaked out of the apartment building an hour before daylight, like burglars, with bags slung over our shoulders. Being the only one with no personal possessions other than the pistol in my pocket, and no spare clothing, other than a pullover borrowed from Lunel’s wardrobe, my suitcase having been left in my hotel room in Marseilles as a cunning diversion, I carried the expedition’s iron rations: some spiced sausage, a small cheese, a packet of hard biscuits, two very heavy screw-top glass jars filled with confit de canard, a pot of rillette and a bottle of brandy, the whole lot cushioned by balled-up pages of newspaper to prevent breakages and clanking.

  Madame Henneuse had done us proud yet again, and I felt a twinge of guilt by even wondering if we could trust her. From the map she had provided and what she must have overheard, or been told by Astrid, she knew as much about our escape route as any of us. As we could not take her with us, not that she would have gone, I risked all the Gallic indignation in the world by asking her to promise not to speak of the Lunels’ reappearance in Pau.