“I’ll think of you all the time you are away. Let me know at once when you get back.”
“Don’t forget the note which I shall leave at the hotel.”
“I won’t forget,” he said, and watched her. She had drawn her coat more tightly round her. Her hair suddenly gleamed into life as the moon freed itself from a cloud. The green of her eyes had darkened. She turned her profile to look up at the sky. Hearne wondered who had first told her how lovely she looked that way. Once more he was thankful that it had been so dark and cold inside the tower. If he had been able to see that profile as clearly as this, it would have been more difficult to judge Elise correctly before she had condemned herself with her own words. He might have been too late for his realism: he might have been caught off guard. But now he didn’t envy Corlay any more. He pitied him. How long would she consider him “useful”? And then, like Kerénor, he could be “dealt with”.
“You’d better start working on your speeches, Bertrand. They are going to be important. I’ll be back here in ten days’ time, and we can have our first meeting with our group then. That will give us time to have some progress to report on our work with the Bretons. Use any means in dealing with them. Hans said you could have a very free hand, but try persuasion first. Co-operation makes things much easier for us than suspicion and hate, so have patience at first. You know the line: the British are treacherous cowards, the Americans are selfish cowards, the rest of France are blood-suckers as well as cowards. A separate Brittany, friendly to Germany, can be secure and happy. You know the sort of stuff. Pile it on, but keep dangling autonomy like a big juicy carrot in front of their noses. God knows they’ve wanted a separate Brittany for years, but trust a Breton to stop wanting it once he gets it. At the meeting on my return, we can discuss how well we have succeeded in our various districts. These are the orders.”
She gave him a last kiss, and then, freeing herself from his arms with that smile which promised so much and meant so little, she turned towards the path. She didn’t look back. She wasn’t the kind who did.
He stood in the cold blackness of the doorway until she had disappeared into the half-shadows of the night. Far below him the church tower was outlined above the trees which hid the houses of Saint-Déodat. He suddenly remembered his emotion when he had first seen the village. Peace, he had thought, lived here. Peace? He smiled sardonically: romanticism always ended in such bathos. Life liked its little jokes: and the more bitter they were, the funnier. He must remember to laugh some day.
A fine rain drizzled over the fields. He turned up the collar of his jacket and abandoned the idea of bed. Day after tomorrow, she had said. In that case, Myles must be on his way by tomorrow night. And that meant the job which he had set for himself tomorrow night must be done now.
He began his steady pace up the hill towards the ruins of the castle. Once over the crest of that wooded hill and he would reach the road from Rennes to Saint-Malo. It was strange to think that what he had learned in this last hour might be as important, in its own way, as anything he could discover in the next few weeks. He hoped, as he felt the rain settling on his shoulders and his feet settling into the soft earth, that the Saint-Malo road would be as interesting as the railway-line he had watched last night.
It was.
13
WARNING FOR SAINT-DÉODAT
There was no time for sleep. Hearne looked at his grey face in the grey light of the mirror, and shook his head wearily. He yawned, and felt his chin with his hand. No time for shaving, either: his fingers were too cold to make a quick job with Corlay’s cut-throat razor. He splashed his face with the three inches of water, and combed his hair. At least he had done a good night’s work. Behind him on the table lay two pages of compact notes. On the floor were his soaked clothes. He would feel warmer once he had some hot soup inside him. There might be even some of that wine left: yesterday Albertine had carefully corked the bottle after their toast. Recorked wine was better than none when you felt as cold as this.
The papers were at last hidden, the bed was appropriately rumpled, the sogging clothes and filthy boots were picked up from the floor. He stood at the door and gave a last careful look. The room looked innocent enough to please him. As he went downstairs, he looked at the boots: they’d have to be scraped and dried as much as possible. He grinned as he remembered Elise and her half-joke about his hands being bigger. It was lucky she hadn’t remembered the size of Corlay’s feet: none of the shoes in Corlay’s wardrobe would fit him.
Albertine had heard him coming, and had already served his breakfast. She wasn’t talking this morning. In fact, she seemed to be ignoring him. So she had been thinking about the Germans’ visit yesterday. Hearne smiled to himself as he swallowed the hot soup hungrily. Even Albertine who only wanted to be left in peace didn’t like the taste that German favours left in her mouth.
At first she paid no attention to the clothes which he had thrown on the stone hearth, but her curiosity at last prompted her to pick them up. She said something to herself, and then waited for him to explain. Hearne finished his bowl of soup, and then helped himself to some more. Albertine, standing with the wet clothes held far out from her white apron, was still waiting.
It was she who, after all, had to speak first.
“Where have you been?”
“Couldn’t sleep much. Went out for a walk.”
“In that rain?”
“Dry these boots, will you, Albertine? I’ve got to go to the village this afternoon.”
“Where are your other pairs of shoes?” She was looking disapprovingly at his stockinged feet.
“Upstairs. But I don’t like them: they are not strong enough for this weather.”
“I told you that when you bought them.” The hint of self-satisfaction in her voice was a good sign. The storm was dispersing.
“You were right and I was wrong, Albertine.” He rose and clapped her shoulder. “You are always right, Albertine.”
As he left the kitchen, she was already scraping the thick yellow mud off the boots and laying them down on their sides not too near the fire.
Upstairs, the American had already been installed in the store-room. He was less talkative today. His “Good morning” had been no more than polite. Hearne leaned his shoulder against the door-post and watched him as he pretended to go back to his writing.
“Busy?” Hearne asked.
“Fairly.”
“Too busy?”
Myles looked up from the pad of paper balanced on his knee. He kept rolling his pencil between his thumb and forefinger.
“Sorry,” continued Hearne, “but there are some things we must discuss.”
“Yes?”
Hearne looked at the American. His jaw was noticeably stubborn; there was a wary look in his eyes. All the friendliness had gone from them. So he too hadn’t liked German favours in retrospect.
“I think,” said Hearne, “that this is hardly the moment for you to begin distrusting me.”
“Well—” said the American, and then stopped.
“Well?”
“Well, I am thinking that I’m more trouble to you than you bargained for.”
It was at that moment that Hearne noticed Myles was wearing boots.
“Your feet are better?”
Myles’s face was expressionless. “Yes.”
“Where on earth did you get those boots?” Hearne kept his voice friendly, even amused.
“Your mother gave them to me. They belonged to her uncle. I’m to get some of his clothes, too.”
Hearne’s voice was less amused. “And you were just waiting for them to arrive before you slipped away, preferably when I wasn’t about the house to see where you had gone?”
Myles stiffened at the barely concealed anger in Hearne’s tone. “Here,” he said, “that’s a bit harsh. After all, I’m only a nuisance here. I don’t like putting anyone in danger the way I’ve been putting you all.”
“And you’d have ruined every
thing, including your own chances to escape.” Hearne’s voice was calm once more. That was the trouble with a sleepless night: it made you bad-tempered whenever you felt yourself thwarted next day.
“I’ll look after my own escape.” It was the American who was angry now.
“Don’t be such a damned fool. If you do arrive at the coast, what will you do then? Go round asking fishermen if they’ll take you across the Channel? You may ask the wrong fisherman, you know.”
“I’ll manage,” Myles said stubbornly. “I’ve managed before.”
“You’d manage much better if you would listen to me. Tonight you’ll leave here. There is a man in a small fishing-village on the river, just before you reach Saint-Malo. He will take you across the Channel. And he doesn’t do it for money, either. Every able-bodied man he saves is another for the Boches to face later.”
Myles said nothing at first. He was staring at Hearne, as if he were trying to read his thoughts. At last he said slowly, “I don’t follow this. I’m willing to bet that you aren’t doing this for the sake of my bright blue eyes.”
“You’d win that bet.”
That startled even Myles. He smiled in spite of himself.
“Well, why then?” He wasn’t angry now, but he was still watchful.
“In the last three weeks you’ve stored a lot of details inside that brain of yours. As a newspaper man, you are a trained observer. The things you would automatically notice during your journey here would be interesting and perhaps useful to the right people.”
There was a pause, and then Myles answered, “I guess they would. But who are your ‘right people’?”
“The ones who’ll meet the fishing-boat when it crosses the Channel.”
The American’s eyes were examining the toes of his boots.
“So you’ve taken all this trouble with me so that I can spill what I know to the ‘right people’... Why bother? I know what to do with the information I’ve gathered.”
“But you might not be able to do it quickly enough. You might take two or three weeks to reach England. If you go my way, you’ll be in England by the fifteenth of July at the latest.”
“If...” Myles repeated Hearne’s emphasis on the word. “Then the choice is up to me? This isn’t an ultimatum?”
“The choice is yours.”
The American relaxed slightly. “You are the funniest farmer I’ve ever met,” he said, and his voice was almost friendly once more.
“I am the funniest farmer.”
Myles shot a sudden glance at Hearne’s face. It was grimly serious.
“It doesn’t make sense,” Myles said, and then shut his lips into that tight line.
“What doesn’t?”
“Your touching farewell with these Jerries yesterday evening, and the way you’ve taken so much trouble to hide me here. Why didn’t you give me up, then and there? You seemed to be a friend of theirs.”
“Shall we say, they think I am a friend of theirs?” Hearne’s quiet voice had no hint of mockery. He returned the American’s direct look with equal steadiness.
Myles said, “You are taking a big chance on me. What if I didn’t turn my information over to the proper quarters? What if I never went near your man outside Saint-Malo?”
“I shall see you do. I shan’t leave you until you are on that boat, and then I’ll get a message over to the other side to expect you and your information. They’ll meet you all right.”
“Well,” said Myles, and gave a short laugh. “You’ve got it all arranged pat, I must say. You weren’t a newspaper man yourself at one time? No? I didn’t expect any company on this journey to the coast. I won’t weary, anyway, I can see.”
“No. I don’t think either of us will weary.”
The American’s interest quickened. “Will it be tough going?”
“Possibly. But we’ll manage. And we’ll only manage if we trust each other. I am trusting you, even if your name isn’t Myles.”
The American was silent; his face seemed unchanged, but he had stopped playing with the pencil.
“I get it,” he said at last.
“Fine. Now today go on remembering every detail you’ve seen, shaping them into order. Eat plenty, and get some sleep. You can use my bed.”
“There’s only one answer I’d like to know,” the American said.
Hearne turned at the door. “And what’s that?”
“I’ll ask you when you get me on to that boat. We’ll skip it now.”
“Okay.”
The American laughed. Hearne looked puzzled. “Kind of cute how all foreigners think they have to say ‘okay’ to an American,” Myles explained.
“Or perhaps it is the way we say it?” Hearne suggested. With the smile still on his lips, he said, “And you should also rest your feet today. Better take the boots off now.”
Myles tightened his lips, but he did bend down to unlace the boots.
“Yes,” he said, “that will rest my feet. It will also prevent me running away without you. Here, take the damned things.” He threw them, each in turn, over to Hearne, with the beginning of a grin. “What was that about trusting me?”
“It still holds,” Hearne said. “I do trust you, but I’ve also heard that Americans are very independent people, and like their own way best. Perhaps you might begin to think once more that you could manage better by yourself.”
“Perhaps I could.”
“Perhaps. But it would be better to avoid all risks. You are much too important at the moment.”
“I don’t think I like being important,” Myles said, but he was not displeased.
“It has its disadvantages,” Hearne agreed, and gave his customary bow. That always amused Myles. At least, Hearne thought, the temperature had risen again. Tonight’s journey would not be such an unpleasant task after all.
“When do we start?” the American asked.
“At sunset. Meanwhile I’ll see my mother and work over some maps.”
“And I’ll rest my feet, I suppose?”
“That’s the idea,” Hearne said. He paused with his hand on the door. “And I really do advise you not to leave the house until we both go. It will be dangerous, not only for yourself but for all of us here. There are Germans in the village. The soldiers are coming here in some numbers tomorrow, but there are others already in the hotel. They probably call themselves a Commission for Economic and Educational Understanding. I think Gestapo is simpler to pronounce, don’t you?”
Myles gave a short laugh. “So they’re here,” he said as if to himself. “I might have known it.”
“Well, I’ll see you later,” Hearne said, and moved into his own room. He closed the door behind him. Already he could feel the numbered lists, which Corlay had hidden so securely, being turned over in his hands. If they were half as good as he hoped, they would still be dynamite.
They were. He spent the next two hours happily copying the names of these men on the German pay-roll, noting their districts and headquarters and meeting-places, memorising as he read and solved and wrote. This, he thought, as he finished his last entry, would be a nice little surprise packet for Matthews: a sort of bonus on the side. It would be useful for. the agents whom Matthews had sent into Northern Brittany to know just what peaceful citizen was a dangerous enemy. And it would be particularly useful for the French who were fighting on. They would have a special interest, a special bill to settle. What was more, if the key-map and its accompanying lists had been drawn up so methodically for Northern Brittany, it also existed for the other districts of France, Hearne imagined perhaps twenty of these map sections, fitting neatly together into one large expanse of intrigue and infiltration. Now that they could be considered an actuality, the search could start for the others. Most things could be discovered, provided you knew that they did exist. That was the snag in this kind of work: there were so many possibilities that you wasted ingenuity and effort, time and trouble, just looking for something you hoped would be there. But once you had
a reality to deal with, that was quite a different cup of tea. Then you could stop worrying about fifty problematical ways to be explored, then you could start working, with the added zest of knowing that you were on the right road.
Hearne folded the sheets of paper neatly. Later he would add the information which Elise had left for him at the Hôtel Perro, along with a coded summary of his own observations. Together they would all sail for England.
He was debating in his own mind whether he should make the coded summary now, or visit Madame Corlay to break his news of Myles’s departure to her, or slip down to the village for Elise’s instructions, when voices from the stairway decided him. Women’s voices. He listened to Albertine’s solid footsteps followed by lighter movements. There was a rustling outside his door, but the room they entered was Madame Corlay’s. He stood with his hand on the door-latch. And then, as he heard Albertine come out of Madame Corlay’s room, he opened the door, quickly and silently.
Albertine had started back at his sudden appearance.
“Who?” he whispered, pointing towards the closed door of Madame Corlay’s room.
Albertine was shaking her head unbelievingly. “They’ve turned her out of her farm.”
Turned out...turned whom out?... Hearne said, “Anne?”
“Yes.” Albertine was still shaking her head as she started downstairs. Only God could know where people could sleep or eat; it was beyond any human being to imagine...Hearne watched her go. He thought grimly, she doesn’t know the half of it; in another six months, or in a year, she may begin to understand. And there would be so many Albertines, so many simple hearts and simple minds whose orderly unimaginative lives had left them ill-equipped to grasp what was happening to the world. There was the tragedy of it: if only they could have realised the danger while there was still time, while they were still free to carry a gun and still free to make guns for themselves. Instead, they would now find that it costs three times as much to retrieve a position as it takes to hold it. And the reckoning had not yet begun. In another year, or more, the full cost would begin to be realised. Hearne suddenly hoped he wouldn’t be in France at that time. He had always liked France too well to watch it weigh the load of chains it had helped to fasten on its own neck.
Assignment in Brittany Page 13
