24
ONE MORE DAY
Hearne was conscious that the eyes of the three Germans had never left his face. He forced himself to watch Elise, to keep his look of enthusiasm and relief and surprise in place. Now he added blank amazement as well. “Elise!” he said again. And then, “Is this some kind of a joke? If it is, then it’s a poor one.”
Elise dropped her posing along with her pseudo-amusement. She was sitting very erect now, looking at him quite coldly. “Is it, Mr. Hearne?”
“Is it what? What’s that you keep saying? Misterern-misterern.” He ran the words quickly together to form a meaningless jumble.
If he was really lost, really discovered, then he was taking the risk of adding a lot of amusement to their present pleasure. He had always promised himself that, once he was hopelessly caught, he wouldn’t give his captors the joy of watching him invent. But now he was finding that the word “hopeless” didn’t have much authority. He was caught, yes; but until he knew more about the evidence he wasn’t going to admit he was hopeless. It would have been just as easy for a strong swimmer to commit suicide by drowning: even as his mind was telling him to sink, his subconscious struggled to keep him afloat.
Hearne looked angrily at the men. “What is all this about, anyway?” he said.
One of the shark-jawed men spoke for the first time. His remark was not addressed to Hearne. “I told you this was the wrong treatment for this man. Now, perhaps, you will let us follow our own methods.”
The German captain moved impatiently in his chair. “The colonel has ordered this examination,” he stated abruptly. He narrowed his eyes at a sheet of paper in front of him.
“Your name?” he said to Hearne. There was only hard efficiency and determined routine in his voice.
The shark-faced Gestapo man caught his breath audibly. He was watching the officer now with barely concealed amusement. The captain ignored the byplay, and proceeded, with at least outward calm, through all the stereotyped questionnaire. Date of birth, place of birth, mother’s name, father’s name, education, religion, attendance at university, date of father’s death, date of uncle’s death, other relatives living, income, political activity, career in peace-time, army service. Hearne, keeping his mind alert, concentrated on the questions, on the way they were asked. He replied easily and assuredly. But he knew that, although there was an undercurrent of friction between the army officer and the Gestapo man, it did not mean the officer would be easy to deal with. He was apparently some kind of liaison or military intelligence man, who came into contact with the Gestapo side of the occupation forces in cases of common policy, or of certain aspects of army morale, or of citizen morale when it interested the army. He was probably Deichgräber’s successor: that he obviously enjoyed his work less than the late unlamented ditch-digger didn’t mean that he was disposed to any kindness for the prisoner under interrogation. He was only determined that the Gestapo was to be kept in its proper place, that the army’s power should be unrelaxed. And so the dry, impersonal voice continued with the endless questions. And so Hearne concentrated and replied with all the strength of the details he had so painfully memorised. The way in which he acquitted himself, down to a concise account of his rescue from Dunkirk by a French trawler which had brought him as a shell-shocked casualty to Brest, didn’t have any effect on the hard, business-like tone of the captain. But the two other men were now watching him thoughtfully; and it gave Hearne some pleasure to see a puzzled look on the girl’s face when he answered one question directly from Corlay’s secret diary. She hadn’t expected that.
The captain asked his last question. Hearne gave a straight answer. The German hesitated for a moment—his first sign of uncertainty—and then looked at the two others.
The shark-faced one said, “We expected something like this. We’ll continue the investigation—with your permission, Captain Holz.”
The third man, who had been silently examining his fingernails, looked at Elise and said, “In my opinion, all form of oral investigation is useless.” His voice, like his face, was razor-edged. He was the lad who would now spend his time in thinking up variations of torture, instead of inventing filthy jokes—as he no doubt had done before he had turned political. Razorpuss was going to supply several bad quarters of an hour before he had finished. He could hardly wait to get his innings, Hearne thought; that was obvious.
Elise came forward and leaned against the end of the table. She smelled like a flower-garden on a hot August morning.
“I’d like to know what all this is about,” Hearne said petulantly, and looked angrily at the girl. “This is really intolerable, Elise.”
She smiled with little sweetness. One eyebrow was raised, the eyelids were half lowered. “Very pretty so far, Mr. Hearne. But your feat of memory is unfortunately in vain. Here is something which arrived yesterday. Captain Holz—may I?”
She stretched out an arm, and Holz placed a sheet of paper silently in her hand. He looked as if he would be much happier sitting at his desk, planning the occupation of the Isle of Wight by parachuting troops as an advance base against Southampton.
Elise looked at the sheet for a moment, as if to tantalise Hearne. He was keeping the same look of indignant annoyance on his face for the benefit of the others’ watchful eyes. He took the piece of paper when it was at last handed to him with an air of unconcern. He looked at it and thought, They can see my face but thank God they can’t feel my heart. He said, a treacherous tightening in his throat almost spoiling his attempt at anger, “What the devil is this?”
It was a small sheet of paper with rough scallops edging one side where it had been torn from a loose-leaf diary. It was dirty, and creased with many folds. The writing was in pencil, small, scribbled, spilling over into the margins; but it was undeniably the writing of Bertrand Corlay.
“Elise, my own,” it began, “you may be in grave danger. I am here in England at the Downside Hospital near Bath. Was brought here after Dunkirk with shattered thigh, nearly dead. Only thoughts of you kept me alive. A man, looking like my image in the mirror, came to visit me constantly. I answered all his questions, told him many details of my life but nothing about us, because I knew I must prove I was Bertrand Corlay and not a German. The English are much afraid of Fifth Columnists. I haven’t seen this man for a month. He may be now in Saint-Déodat, for at the last I found out that was his purpose. He looks like me, his voice grew like mine, but he is English. I asked cautiously for my friend who had visited me. Only two days ago, I asked a young doctor. That way I found his name is Hern. Yesterday Jacques Lassarre came to see me before he sailed. He came here from Dunkirk, too, but is now going back to France. I have asked him to send you this note when he arrives in France. Am writing under difficulties. All letters examined, but L. will smuggle this out. I shall return soon. Still two boat-loads of wounded to sail to France. Lying here tortured to death with thoughts of you.”
Then followed two lines over which Hearne had shuddered when he had first seen them in Corlay’s diary.
“Tes beaux cheveux, couleur du soleil riche et sombre, Ils seront mon abri, me pâmant dans leur ombre.”
And then the signature: “Bertrand Corlay.”
Hearne looked up at the four intent faces. His eyes were incredulous. Damn that pip-squeak of a doctor, he was thinking. It must have been Paton, who had known him at Cambridge, who thought he had a nice cushy job in Whitehall and used to greet him when they accidentally met by saying, “Well, how goes the rubber stamp these days?” And Paton, out of ignorance and genial bedside manner, had answered Corlay’s innocent question. Blast Paton and blast the fates that had stationed him at Downside Hospital.
Hearne looked down at the sheet of paper again, and then quickly back at Elise. “What the devil is this?” he asked.
“What do you suppose?”
“It’s a letter from me to you, but I never wrote it.”
“No, you certainly did not,” the shark-faced man said, and laughed a
t his joke.
“It’s no laughing matter.” Hearne was indignant and angry. He read aloud thoughtfully, “Elise, my own, you may be in grave danger...” He looked again at Elise. “Indeed you may, and so may I, and all those who work with us.” The intensity and urgency of his voice silenced even Sharkface.
“Whoever wrote this,” Hearne went on, “knows about us, and is trying to upset our plans by the only means he has: by sowing suspicion. Cleverly done, too. See, he scribbled it hurriedly, so that if he made any mistakes in copying my writing then you would only think it was due to haste.”
“And just where would he learn your handwriting?” Sharkface asked caustically.
“Only one place possible. The poem proves that. I had it written down in my diary. I was working over the last couplet. He has copied it down the old way.” Hearne quoted the lines:
“Your tresses fair, like the sun’s gold at setting,
Bring me sweet shelter, languorous forgetting.
I was changing that to:
Your golden hair, like the sun’s rich setting,
Brings me sweet peace and deep forgetting.
But he couldn’t guess that...” The injured poet threw the sheet of paper contemptuously on the table.
The Germans exchanged amused glances. Good, thought Hearne: the more of a fool they think me, the more chance I have.
“And just where would this man find this interesting diary?” Sharkface prided himself, it seemed, on heavy sarcasm.
“I don’t know... The last time I saw it was before Dunkirk. I lost everything there.”
“Do I understand you mean to say—” began Sharkface with bogus politeness.
“I mean what I say,” cut in Hearne angrily. “Enough of this foolishness. We are obviously in danger.”
Sharkface turned a dull red. He leaned forward, opening his mouth to shout.
“One moment.” It was the captain. “Who is the man Lassare?”
“There was a man of that name in my unit,” Hearne guessed wildly. It did well enough to fill the gap at the moment. But only for the moment.
“We shall find that out,” Captain Holz said, and settled calmly back in his chair. Sharkface made a note on the pad in front of him.
“In my opinion, all form of oral investigation is useless.” It was Razorpuss again. He was a man of one idea, it seemed. Hearne could make a good guess at that idea, too, looking at the tight eyes and spade-cut mouth, the sleek hair, sloping brow, and high, thin nose.
“There’s still one thing, gentlemen,” Elise said slowly—but her voice had lost something of its confidence. Gentlemen... Hearne smothered his smile before it reached his lips. He looked reproachfully at Elise, in as good an imitation of a hurt dog as he could manage. She moved quickly over to the door which led into the bar.
“Hans!” she called, and there was the sound of footsteps. Several footsteps. So that was it, so that was it. Hearne felt a surge of excitement as his fears over this last test gave way to relief. So that was it! The real Corlay knew Hans, the false Corlay didn’t. At least, that was what Elise believed.
Three men followed each other through the narrow door, and stood there in a group. All wore ordinary lounge suits. All looked at Hearne with the same blank look. He let recognition come into his eyes as they fell on the dark young man who had been Deichgräber’s dinner companion in Pléhec’s restaurant, who had walked on the ramparts of Mont Saint-Michel with Elise.
“Well, Hans,” he said, “and so you’ve got back from Paris. Had a nice trip?” His voice was acid. He glanced at Elise. There was veiled jealousy in that look. And then he turned on Hans.
“You wouldn’t know, would you, my dear Hans, about a letter supposed to have been written by me?” His tone was vitriol itself.
The attack took the Nazi by surprise. Then his face reddened with anger and he came quickly forward into the room. Elise was sitting quite still on the edge of the desk.
The underlying suggestion had not been lost on Captain Holz. He rose abruptly to his feet, marked distaste in every movement. “Enough!” he said in German, and he did not add “gentlemen.” “Enough! This is developing into a servants’ brawl.”
There was a cold silence. The others hadn’t liked that: Elise least of all.
Holz spoke again. “Have your men, Captain Ehrlich, been detailed to search the farm?”
Ehrlich answered, “They have not yet returned with their report, Captain Holz.”
Holz nodded thoughtfully. “We must find this Lassarre. What was that postmark?”
“Bordeaux.” Elise’s voice was toneless. She didn’t look at Hearne. He was thinking. Bordeaux was a big place. At least, he had some kind of breathing space until Lassarre was found. Even allowing for the Gestapo’s loving care, there was still that breathing space. As long as there was no wall behind your back and no firing squad facing you, there was still a chance. It wasn’t hopeless yet.
The men had risen.
“Elise,” Hearne said in desperation. “Elise. What has happened to you?” But he was damned if he was going to fall on his knees and plead with her as the emotional Corlay probably would have done.
Her eyes wavered, and then she walked to the window. She had made her decision.
“Take him away now,” she said. So she was clever enough to know that she had lost his loyalty. Whether he was found guilty or innocent, she couldn’t command his blind obedience after this. “At once,” she added over her shoulder, as if she were ordering a table to be cleared of soiled dishes. Her profile against the light from the window was as perfect as she probably hoped.
Razorpuss motioned with the fingers he had examined so thoroughly. The two men beside Ehrlich advanced, grasped Hearne by each arm, and propelled him towards the screen and the restaurant door. Behind them came the man with the razor-face. He had drawn his revolver. They were taking no chances, it seemed. Hearne relaxed, and walked easily. He wasn’t going to give them the slightest excuse.
In this way they left the hotel.
There were silent groups of people in the square. The news must have travelled fast. Under one tree Kerénor was standing, and with him was a girl whose soft, fair hair gleamed in the sunlight striking through the thin branches. They stopped talking as Hearne was marched past. He didn’t look at them. But he knew they were still watching him as he was led into the group of buildings on the opposite side of the market-place to the hotel. As he ascended the steps of the little town hall a Nazi flag swung confidently overhead.
Inside, there was a large, desolate room with a few rows of cane chairs facing an empty platform. The table on the platform had been decorated. At one end there was the tricolour, at the other the arms of Brittany—the black cross and ermine fringe on silver—and in the middle, separating and dominating in ironical symbolism, was a giant swastika. There was a doorway beside the platform. This was where he was to be taken.
The doorway led to a dark, narrow corridor, and in turn the corridor led to a flight of wooden stairs, circling down into the basement of the building. The stairs ended in the largest room of them all. It was the central cellar, and the darkest. Round its flanks were small, box-like storerooms. The only light streamed through their opened doors, from their small windows set almost at roof level.
Hearne stumbled over a pile of papers in the darkness of the central room, and was encouraged by a kick to keep his footing. It seemed as if the smaller rooms had all been cleared out. There wasn’t even a stick of furniture in them now. But the floor of the central room was littered with piles of books and ledgers and papers. As his eyes grew accustomed to the half-shadows he could also see the dark shape of a table and two benches. More papers were stacked on the table. The archives of Saint-Déodat were in process of examination, it would seem.
They had halted him at the entrance to one of the small rooms. The smell of dampness and stale air hung round him. After the warmth of the sun in the market-place, the chill of the basement struck at his bones. He shi
vered in spite of himself. So this was to be his lodging. The ground certainly looked cold enough. Two kicks confirmed his guess. He picked himself slowly up from the middle of the floor. There was no hurry: there were plenty more where those had come from. He turned to face the three men standing at the doorway of the small cellar. Behind him the small, high window half lighted the room. Outside there was sunlight. He heard the clear voices of children, raised in the excitement of some game.
The man with the tight eyes and spade-cut mouth nodded. the heavy oak door was closed. It shut with a deep thud, almost blotting out the hard voice.
“Now,” the man was saying, “now we might get the truth.”
No use in backing away, thought Hearne: it would only be worse if they were to get him up against the stone wall. He stood in the middle of the floor and watched the three men advancing.
When Hearne regained consciousness, the half-light from the small, high window had faded. It was almost dark in the improvised cell. He lay for some minutes on the stone floor. When he tried to raise himself it was too unpleasant. He gave up; and lay as he had fallen. He didn’t even think. He felt better after the second spasm of vomiting.
At the end of half an hour or so he tried again. This time he managed to stagger to the wall. Why should he try to stand, anyway, he suddenly thought, and let himself fall and slide to the ground. Why should he even sit? He wanted to laugh at himself for his subconscious attempt to assert the natural dignity of man. There wasn’t much natural dignity left after three men had kicked the daylight out of you. He lay on the floor, watching the fading light. He felt the crusts of blood on his face with his left hand, and he thought of Anne. He remembered her dismay when the razor-cut had opened afresh... He began a smile, but his jaw wouldn’t let him finish it.
Well, his face wasn’t too bad. Not too bad, considering. It wouldn’t look exactly pretty, but at least it still felt recognisable in parts. His left hand went slowly over the rest of his body. Right collar-bone gone. Well, he could have got that in a Rugger scrum any day. Probably something wrong with a rib, too. He felt the sore spot gently...yes, probably a rib. The rest was bruises, and probably a kidney afloat. If ever he reached middle age, he’d find out. He could feel the differences in the consistency of his flesh even under his clothes. Legs were all right, though. Bruised and scraped, but no bones broken. And they were the most important for him. Without his legs he could never reach the coast.
Assignment in Brittany Page 28
