Assignment in Brittany

by Helen Macinnes

  “One egg will be enough for me,” Hearne suggested politely; but he was relieved to see Pléhec shake his head at that and smile.

  “And I can offer you some soup: thinner, to be sure, but still soup. And a slice of bread, and some cheese which I managed to hide in time. The coffee is unspeakable. I insult the word ‘coffee’ by using it to describe what we now drink. Our supplies here were requisitioned, and we have been most generously allowed to buy this.” He thumped the brown coffeepot so heavily down on the wooden table, that Hearne thought he had smashed it. “Filtré,” Pléhec added bitterly, and gave that short laugh of his. He suddenly halted, one hand holding the long twist of bread against his chest, the other’s thumb ready to drive the sharply pointed knife into the loaf. “How,” he said, suddenly halting and looking up at Hearne, “how did you get here?”

  “Walked in.”

  Pléhec sawed a slice off the loaf of bread and handed it over to Hearne on the point of the knife. “Begin with that,” he said. “Now when did you so calmly walk in?” There was a mixture of amusement and irony in his voice.

  “About half-past four. When the two Jerries had to run from the tide.”

  “Then the others would be crowding on to the wall at that side of the Mont, in order to see them. But the guards? They didn’t stop you?”

  “I was carrying oysters. For a woman. She went next door, by the way.”

  “Mathilde?”

  “I don’t know. Her little boy was called Michel.”

  “That was Mathilde.” Pléhec paused, and traced an imaginary line with the knife on the table. He suddenly went to a small door in a corner of the kitchen, and called abruptly, “Etienne!”

  A boy’s voice answered him; there was the sound of a creaking bed; and then slow footsteps.

  “Is it six already?” the boy asked as he came into the room. He smoothed back his dark hair and yawned audibly. He scarcely paused to look at Hearne. “Another?” he said.

  But Pléhec had his own question to ask. “Mathilde usually leaves after five o’clock?”

  “Mathilde? Oh, they try to get her away before supper begins.”

  “See her... Say I want to know if she can bring some extra oysters when she comes next week.”

  The boy nodded, and slipped out of the room as quietly as he had entered it. He had an infinite capacity for not being surprised, it seemed.

  Pléhec was silent as he handed Hearne a bowl of soup. Hearne took his cue, and didn’t speak. But now he was worried about Mathilde, too: he must have endangered her; there must be some regulations about which he knew nothing. He had finished the soup, and the omelette was rising on the flat brown earthenware dish when he heard the footsteps on the stone-paved yard. Pléhec folded the omelette quickly and slipped it hurriedly on to a plate. He was still holding the brown cooking-dish and the fork in his hands as he reached the door. He moved with surprising lightness and speed.

  “Mathilde,” he greeted the woman standing outside, “can you bring a few extra oysters for me when you come next time? What is the price now?”

  Mathilde talked volubly and practically. The boy who was called Etienne had come back into the kitchen. He nodded to Hearne pleasantly, took an apron from a hook in the wall, and tied it round his waist. He picked up a bowl of green peas from a side table and began shelling them. Hearne began the omelette: Pléhec would never forgive him if he let the two eggs spoil.

  There was only a murmur of voices now from the doorway. Then suddenly Pléhec’s voice was normal once more as he stipulated the price. The door closed. Mathilde’s footsteps faded.

  “Well, how did you like it?” Pléhec asked. He was smiling again as he looked at Hearne’s empty plate. “Once I should have thought it impossible to cook an omelette without one of my copper pans.” He pointed to the row of empty hooks above the fire-place. “But of course you saw that?”

  Hearne nodded. He hadn’t, but he now remembered that the omelette had looked strange cooking slowly in the earthenware dish, and that its texture had been drier and spongier. “It was excellent,” he said, and he meant it.

  Pléhec said, “I’m afraid you must lose your jacket. Would you take it off?” He handed it to Etienne. “Wear this, and go with Mathilde as far as La Caserne. There you will go on towards Pontorson, while she will take her usual path home. Get rid of the jacket when it’s safe, and come back here. We’ll need you later.”

  Etienne grinned and took off his apron. The jacket fitted him loosely, but convincingly enough.

  “Mathilde?” Hearne asked quickly.

  Pléhec spoke without turning from the small curtained window looking out into the courtyard. It was so high that he was standing on tiptoe to bring his eyes above the level of the sill. “She realises that the son of my late wife’s cousin wants to stay longer with me, that it would be dangerous for him to stay without permission—and so Etienne will wear his jacket and carry the basket, and the guards will notice that a man who came in has gone out again. That’s all we have to worry about.”

  “And little Michel?”

  “He doesn’t know Etienne. He will remember the strange jacket as much as the face.” Pléhec was suddenly silent. His eyes were on the courtyard. Hearne thought he heard voices, and then footsteps.

  Pléhec turned back into the room. “Front door, Etienne. She’s just gone. Quick.”

  Etienne moved quickly and silently. They didn’t even hear the door close.

  “Well, that’s that. He’ll catch up with her on the Grande-Rue, and if Madame of the long tongue from next door was watching to see anything she could see—for her eyes are as sharp as her tongue is long—she will be disappointed.” Pléhec rubbed his hands with the pleasure of frustrating Madame, the cousin of Mathilde’s godson’s uncle. “Well, that’s that,” he said again, and picked up the apron which Etienne had thrown on the table. He handed it and the bowl of peas to Hearne. “Something useful for you to do. Very useful, if anyone should come in.”

  Hearne smiled and rolled up his sleeves: first oyster-gatherer, now pea-sheller and potato-peeler. It was all in the day’s work.

  Pléhec carried two pails over to a small side table. “You’ll find it tasty enough,” he said consolingly. “Our catering has become very simple. Just so many customers, just so much to eat for each customer, just so little to cook.” He picked up a fish out of one of the pails, and slapped it on to the small table. Slitting it carefully up its belly, he raked out its inside. There was a grim smile on his face. “Do you know who I like to think this is?” he asked suddenly, one hand ripping out the last piece of gut.

  Hearne nodded. “I can guess.”

  “And there were those among us who would say, ‘What are we fighting for?’ The rich said ‘War means revolution: we will lose our possessions!’ The workers said ‘Patriotism is for the rich: war means we will lose our new privileges!’ Well, they know now: they got their peace, and they’ve lost everything. ‘What are we fighting for?’ Bah!” He chose another fish, and beheaded it neatly with one blow of the knife. “That,” he said; “for all traitors who think of their own private interests first. And this”—he selected another fish—“this for the politicians who play with their country’s enemies for the sake of power; and—” He halted as he saw Hearne’s expression.

  “Don’t worry, my friend,” he said. “This is a little luxury which I permit myself each evening. This is not rationed. The choice is either thoughts such as these, or a chloroformed sleep. I prefer to keep awake.”

  Hearne nodded sympathetically, and finished the shelling of the peas. They were pitiably few.

  “How many customers?” he asked.

  “Exactly seven. Duclos and Gouret from the Museum; Guehenneuc, Grault, and Boulleaux, the guides to the Abbey; old Dr. Fuzet and Picquart the notary. Yes, exactly seven. But it simplifies things for me. It gives me a lot of free time for more urgent business.”

  “Can you trust them?”

  “The customers? But of course.
..” He smiled enigmatically. “They come to eat here, and talk, and get through one more evening.”

  “What about meeting Duclos?”

  “I shall forget to lay a glass before him, and the way to the lavatory is through here.” He pointed to the door through which Etienne had first emerged. Hearne was satisfied, and nodded. He mentally blessed the peculiarities of the ancient plumbing on the Mont Saint-Michel.

  A cool draught swept into the kitchen from the restaurant. The front door was open. There were voices.

  Pléhec hurriedly wiped his hands. “Put these in the pail: tomorrow’s lunch,” he said, nodding towards the fish-guts on the table; then clipped the bow tie round his neck, before picking up the glazed black jacket. He reached for a white linen cap, and, with a smile, placed it on Hearne’s head. He was still smiling as he closed the door leading into the restaurant behind him.

  Hearne settled the cap more securely on his head. Well, he thought, and took a deep breath. Well, here he was, in a half-lighted eighteenth-century kitchen, clearing fish-guts carefully into a pail. Here he was, with a cap a foot high on his head, waiting for a white-haired archæologist to pass through to the lavatory. In his pocket was that folded wad of paper with its neatly coded phrases. Tonight Duclos would send them out into the air.

  He wiped his hands on his apron, tilted the starched cap securely over one eye, and casually turned his back to the restaurant door as it was swung open. It was Pléhec. He bustled over with quick, short steps to the soup-pot hanging above the drift-wood fire.

  “I gave him the sign,” he said in a voice so low that it was almost drowned in the ladle of soup which he held to his lips. He nodded his head as if satisfied. The lines at the side of his mouth deepened: there was perspiration on his brow and upper lip. He worries more than I do, thought Hearne: he’s worried and he’s nervous. Hearne looked at the anxious brown eyes. “Two lousy Boches just arrived,” Pléhec muttered; and then, as he handed the ladle to Hearne, he added, in an attempt at a normal voice, “It is as good as it ever will be. Three platefuls, Etienne. Two small ladles and no more for each person.”

  The door opened again. Hearne’s hand tightened on the ladle.

  Pléhec spoke hurriedly. “Ah, Dr. Fuzet. I am just about to bring the soup.”

  An old voice said, as though from a distance, “Good.” Old feet shuffled across the stone floor behind Hearne. He measured the two small ladlefuls of soup carefully into the plate, and handed it to Pléhec. Two more plates to be filled, and then the tired feet shuffled back across the kitchen floor. Pléhec followed them into the restaurant The door swung open once more. Hearne slipped his hands into his pockets. I am near enough to the fire to drop the wad of paper into the flames, he thought. But the footsteps were light, and the hand which touched his elbow was friendly. The white-haired man with the sallow skin scarcely flickered his drooping eyelids as Hearne turned to face him. Like Pléhec, he had aged. Like Pléhec, the lines in his face were more finely drawn, and the shadows under the half-veiled eyes were deeper. As he recognised the Englishman his smile changed from politeness to pleasure. But he said nothing.

  He pointed. Hearne followed him silently into Etienne’s room.

  19

  CONTACT

  It was a dark little room, lighted only by one high, narrow window.

  Duclos gripped Hearne’s hand.

  “It’s good to see you, my friend,” he said simply, and then suddenly put both arms round Hearne’s shoulders; and their cheeks touched for a moment. Hearne was silent, but he clapped Duclos’ arm. It was good to see him.

  “Well,” Duclos said, “we must be quick. Two Germans in the front room. And we’ve been watched for the last two days. You want me to send a message?” He was unlacing his boot as he spoke.

  “Yes,” said Hearne, and handed the wad of paper to Duclos. It was a duplicate of the paper he had given Myles—no, van Cortlandt. His observations and notes, and the list of names and other details of Elise’s organisation. The Frenchman took it silently and slid it into the sole of his sock. He pulled on his boot again and laced it methodically.

  “First of all,” said Hearne, “zero date is August the fifteenth. August the fifteenth. Then tell them that a fishing-boat must be met off Penzance tomorrow at sunset. Penzance. Tomorrow at sunset. American on board has vital information. Got it?”

  Duclos finished tying a loose knot. “Fishing-boat. Penzance. Tomorrow at sunset. American,” he repeated.

  “Then, after that, send the message I’ve given you, if you have time.”

  Duclos smiled at the last phrase. “If I am not interrupted, you mean,” he said calmly. “First, August the fifteenth; then the fishing-boat; then your information. And then?”

  “You’ve reported about the gun emplacements along the coast?”

  “I’ve only heard vaguely about them. We aren’t allowed to move about freely, you know.”

  “Who’s covering this territory?” Hearne was half incredulous, half angry.

  “Dunwoodie was. Haven’t heard from him for two weeks.

  I fear—”

  “Jimmy Dunwoodie?”

  Duclos nodded sympathetically. Hearne paused. Jimmy Dunwoodie. Another good man...no time for thoughts. He shook himself free from them.

  “Well, then, fourthly, if you still have time: guns are being mounted along this coast, between Le Vivier and Pontorson, about two miles, from the sea. Possibly to guard aerodromes, which are also under construction.” Must be for the aerodromes, he thought. Large batteries would be pointless here. This part of the French coast was about a hundred and fifty miles from Southampton. Big guns, Michel had said. But all guns seemed big to a child. “Further information regarding aerodromes will follow,” he ended.

  Duclos repeated the sentences in his low, calm voice.

  “That’s all,” said Hearne. He looked at the Frenchman.

  “Au revoir.” And for God’s sake take care of yourself, he added in his heart.

  “Au revoir.”

  Tonight the customary phrase had a literal meaning which lifted it out of its usual off-hand triteness. They meant it, both of them.

  Duclos had gone back to the dining-room and his meagre supper. Hearne picked up the cook’s cap which had fallen from his head, and slipped back into the kitchen. Duclos would finish his dinner unhurriedly, as if he had all the time in the world; and after making his quiet good-night to the others he would walk slowly up the hill in the gathering dusk. He would pause, perhaps for the view, and certainly for breath, on each stone platform as the street became a series of steep, twisting steps; and at last he would reach his narrow little house and its quiet garden under the walls of the towering Abbey. There he would settle in the high-ceilinged room at his book-littered desk. And there he would work until the dusk had become night, until it was safe for him to move quickly and silently through the garden, through a door hidden under climbing roses, into the thickness of the garden wall—and then into the base of the Abbey wall itself. The medieval mind which had designed that passage had no doubt pleasanter purposes in view: but now, six hundred years later, medieval ingenuity and secrecy had perhaps their greatest success.

  Hearne stood watching the peas swirling in the boiling pot on the iron rack. The acrid smell of vinegar came from the flat fish beside it, where the fish were steaming placidly. Oil must be scarce, he thought: too scarce for fish. He looked at the pail of fish offal. Tomorrow’s lunch... We’ll never know the half of it, he thought: those of us who live through this war in safety will never know the half of it. Even if we can imagine all the stark bloodshed which peacetime prophets foretold, we shall never guess about the little things, the little things which add up to a horror of their own.

  He looked impatiently at his watch. In four hours, perhaps even three, Duclos would send that message. He remembered his last visit here, when Duclos had led him one night into the dark, narrow passage within the walls. Then it had been a kind of joke, a strange and rather mad kind
of joke. But he also remembered the awe which had silenced his amusement when they at last emerged from that dark journey and found themselves inside the Abbey. They were standing in the shadows of a narrow, half-ruined courtyard. Above them, soaring into the night’s soft moonlight, were the delicate spires of chapels, the crenelated edge of terraces and twisting flights of stairs, the crowding walls of mounting churches and Gothic towers. They seemed to stretch up the steepness of the rock as if to reach heaven itself. It had been a subdued and silent Hearne who had followed Duclos into recently restored cloisters, and from there into a decrepit passage leading down into the depths of the Abbey’s foundations. Above their heads men had once prayed and sung, had feasted and fasted, had fought and lived. But down here, where Duclos was now leading him (with a torch to light up the blocks of stone in their way), men had welcomed death to release them from their tortures, men had gone mad in hidden dungeons, men had been entombed alive in oubliettes. It was one of these, a hole in the wall where men could be forgotten by their enemies, that Duclos had discovered in the course of his excavations.

  Pléhec bustled in and out of the kitchen. There was the clatter of plates. Hearne still stood in front of the fire—as if, there in the flames, he could see Duclos making his way so carefully and quietly to the secret oubliette. There had been two iron rings in the wall, at shoulder-height. Beneath them lay a small heap of dust and fragments of bone. After the flesh had rotted away the skeleton’s wrists had slipped free from the iron manacles. Death had given a double release. Hearne wondered whether Duclos had buried them when he set up the transmitter that he had smuggled there, piece by piece. Or had he left them to remind himself that others had died for their beliefs—as a savage warning against carelessness? That would be like Duclos, strange mixture of idealism and practicality.