“You’ve only to smile and wrinkle this nose of yours, Anne” —he kissed it and won a little laugh—“and even the Albertines offer you shelter.”
“It wasn’t my smile; it was what I said to her when three soldiers marched past the length of the queue, went into the shop, and came out eating the last pies.”
Hearne laughed, too, and ran his hand over the soft hair lying so close to him. “And where is Madame Chevel now?”
“Asleep in her little house. And I am on my way to my aunt at Saint-Brieuc.”
Hearne was silent. He was wondering if all women were naturally adept at this kind of game. First, there had been Elise, and now here was Anne, who, for a different cause but with much the same skill, had managed to plan her way to the coast. Plan his way too: he owed much to her cleverness and foresight.
“What’s wrong?” Anne was asking. She stretched her free arm across his shoulders. “Oh,” she said, “you are cold, so cold. And you’ve let your bandage slip out of place.” The concern in her voice pleased him.
“I’m warmer than I was. I’m feeling better every minute.” He tightened his grip on her waist. “Darling, why did you come here?”
“I wanted to see you.” Anne, so direct, so honest. No hedging. Just “I wanted to see you.” There was a pause, and then the whispered voice was so low that he could hardly hear it. “I had to see you leave safely. If I had gone to my aunt’s house, I should never have known that you had even reached here. I should never have known what had happened to you.”
“And what happens to me...does it mean so much?”
Anne was silent.
“Does it mean so much?” he repeated.
“I kissed you,” she said, in a very small voice.
His left arm, encircling her waist, pulled her closer. “Darling,” was all he said.
And then, later, “If kisses show how much, then you know now how much it means to me, too.” He kissed her once more. “I couldn’t be sure, Anne. I’m a jealous kind of chap. I worried about you being engaged to Corlay. You aren’t the kind of a girl to let herself get engaged to a man without having liked him enough at one time. Then I thought you had been kind to me because you were sorry for me, or because you hated the Boches so much, or both. It wasn’t until I saw you out there among the dunes that I let myself think of anything more. Even yet, I can’t quite believe that you love me; you’ll have to say it, to make me believe it.”
“Why do you want to believe it?” Her cheek was warm with the hot blood under the fine, smooth skin. Her heart was again pounding against his arm, her voice was half laughing, half serious.
“Because,” he said simply, “I am coming back here after the war ends. And if I’m coming back, I want to know you’ll be here.”
“Yes,” she said slowly. “I’ll be here. I’ll stay at Saint-Brieuc and watch for you coming from England. After the war...” This time the tears which came could not be controlled or explained away. She caught him convulsively and buried her face in his shoulder. It was his right shoulder, and it hurt like hell, but Hearne found a fierce pleasure in the pain.
“After the war,” he said firmly, “I’ll be here even if I have to swim across.” His voice was calm, determined.
Anne had stopped crying. “Your arm!” she said, suddenly remembering. “Your shoulder!” Her hands were gently feeling for the bandage, gently arranging it to make his shoulder more comfortable.
“I’d rather have your head than a bandage,” he said. “Leave it, Anne. There’s still one question I’d like to know the answer to. It keeps haunting me. Were you ever in love with Bertrand Corlay?”
Anne’s words were clear and direct. “I wanted to fall in love with him, at one time. I thought I could. But I didn’t.”
“Why did you want to fall in love with him?”
She bent over suddenly to kiss his cheek. “Because I was young, and he was so very good-looking.”
“What? Corlay? He’s as ugly as—well—” He halted in embarrassment.
“Then only you think so.” She kissed him again. “You are the strangest man.”
“Why?”
“You keep silent when I want you to talk. And when you do talk, you ask questions.”
“Do I?”
“Yes.”
“But I’ve so much to find out about you. There’s so much I want to know. First tell me how much you love me, then tell me about you...everything you can remember, little things, anything.”
“First, you must tell me how much you love me. You will teach me how to say it. That will give me courage.”
He said seriously and gently, “Do you ever need courage, Anne?”
“Sometimes.”
He kissed her. “I don’t think words are very adequate for this moment.”
“No?” She was half laughing.
“No.” He was half serious.
Later, she said, “And I can’t even say your name. You’ve never told me it.” It wasn’t an indirect question: it was a simple statement, tinged with surprise and melancholy.
“Martin,” he answered. “Martin—” He halted. “The other name you will know later, Anne. Later, when it is safe for you to know it. Now I must just be Martin.”
“Martin,” she repeated, giving it the French pronunciation. “Martin.” Her finger traced a line across his forehead and down the side of his cheek.
Hearne stiffened suddenly. He laid a finger across her lips. They lay in silence, straining to catch any sound. At last Hearne relaxed. “Thought I heard feet crumpling shells on the shore,” he explained. They listened again.
At last Hearne spoke softly. “You didn’t know my name, you still only know half of it; you don’t know what kind of job I have, or how much money I make or don’t make; you have scarcely seen me except when I was worried, or tired, or smelling of fish, or all bloodied up. And now I’ve chosen a gorse-bush to drag you into, and my wet clothes are leaving a damp trail of sea-water over you, and the sand is still sticking to a week’s growth of beard, and yet you say you’ll marry me. God, however did I have the luck to find you?” His eyes, now accustomed to the blackness round them, tried to see her face more clearly. His lips touched her eyes and hair.
“There are so many things to—” he began, and then halted. “We’ve so little time left.”
“At least we’ve until dawn, and then through the day, and then through the evening, until darkness comes again.”
“No, Anne. You can’t wait all that time. You must go before light breaks. You must be on the road to Saint-Brieuc by morning. You must.”
She lay very still.
At last she said, “Can’t I even wait on the dunes, just to see you leave?”
“Anne, darling, I’d only worry about you. Better reach your aunt. If I only had time I’d take you there and see you into her house.”
At first she didn’t speak. And then the soft voice had tightened. “How long have we together, then?”
Half an hour, or an hour at the very most, Hearne thought, with his heart as cold as the damp clothes clinging to his body. He said, “Not long enough for any more talk, my love,” and kissed the smooth outlines of her face. “Not even for the reasons why I adore you.” Her skin was soft as a child’s. Her hair smelled of sunshine and fresh winds.
They both flinched when they heard the explosion. Anne had instinctively tightened her arms round his neck, wincing as one of them scraped against the sharp-edged spines of gorse.
“Something’s gone up,” Hearne said. “Something’s blown sky-high. About two miles away, beyond the town. What the devil could that be?”
“The little docks on the east bay, where the river runs into the sea,” Anne suggested. “Madame Chevel said that was how they were bringing the ammunition—by boat. But it’s all guarded: there are soldiers there.”
Hearne nodded. He was alert, listening.
“What’s that?” Anne asked, flinching again.
“Rifle-fire over there. Sounds li
ke machine-guns, too. What the dickens is this, anyhow?” He struggled to a kneeling position, his head and shoulders bent, his hands still holding Anne.
Then they heard the footsteps, running footsteps, footsteps coming near them, footsteps coming from the golf course behind them. Again there was rifle-fire, but this time stray shots sounded from this side of the town in counterpoint to the continuous staccato beat from the east bay.
“Hell’s broken loose,” Hearne said. “I’m going out for a look-see.” He started to crawl forward to the place where he had found their entrance.
“Perhaps your friends?” Anne said.
He shook his head. “They wouldn’t make all this racket. They do it very differently. Sounds to me like a raiding party.” He thought grimly, It would be just my luck to have chosen to leave Saint-Lunaire on the night after a pre-arranged raid.
The footsteps were farther away now. As Hearne parted the branches cautiously, he heard someone fall, and then there was a torrent of descriptive adjectives.
“British,” he said to Anne. And then, in alarm, “They’re going away.” He stooped down to help her rise. He ripped her cardigan from the thorns. To their right they saw the disappearing heads and shoulders of the two last soldiers, as they jumped down on to the shore.
“Hurry, darling, hurry,” Anne said, “quick, quick.” He took her hand and together they raced for the edge of the dune. From somewhere behind them, perhaps from the hotel across the golf course, came a furious burst of firing.
“Keep low!” he urged, and slid over the end of the dune, dragging Anne with him. She was talking so quickly he could hardly separate the words.
“Goodbye, darling, goodbye. And come back. Martin!” But even as she was speaking he had to whistle shrilly to the running figures. Three boats near the beach. From the other side of the rocky peninsula flames were rising, and the firing was heavier.
One of the soldiers had heard him. He stopped and half turned. Hearne waved his left hand, and whistled again. The officer bringing up the rear also halted and looked round, and then waved in turn. Urgently. The rifle-shots were coming nearer now. A machine-gun crackled on this side of the town, too. The rifle-shots were coming nearer.
“Go on, darling,” Anne said. “I’ll be waiting at Saint-Brieuc.” The officer waved again. Hearne could hear him swearing as he waved. He crushed Anne’s hands convulsively. He couldn’t speak. He turned and ran towards the four soldiers who were waiting for him.
He remembered her as he ran, standing quite still, her back against the dune, her hand frozen in mid-air. She would be smiling. If he could see, she would be smiling.
Hearne turned to look towards her for the last time. She hadn’t moved. Her hand was still upraised.
And then, from where he now stood, he could see the moving shadows as well as hear the sound of their rifles. They’d get her. If she stayed behind, they’d find her. The moving line spread thinly, unevenly, but still dangerously, towards the shore.
Hearne started to run back to the dunes. Behind him he heard the officer’s voice raised angrily. The bullets were findings range now. Sand spurted to the side of him. “Anne,” he called. “Anne. Come. Quick.” And she was running towards him. She seemed to stumble just as she reached him, but his arms were ready and caught her, and then holding her round the waist, her arms resting on his shoulder, he pulled her with him towards the four waiting soldiers.
“What the bloody hell do you think you’re playing at?” said the officer. He looked at Anne. “But what’s all this?” Then, looking at Anne, he was suddenly silent, and stepping to her other side crossed arms with Hearne to sweep her along between them. Then were in the water now, the surf round their feet, the breaking wave catching their waists. Beyond the waves at the edge, it was shallow and smooth.
The officer was talking all the time. “Good show!” he was saying. “Not bad at all. We gave ’em a pincer movement all right. Pinced them with their panzers down!” He looked approvingly towards the red semi-circle of sky beyond the rocky peninsula. “I wonder how many the others got on that side,” he went on. “We nabbed three officers from the hotel, and disposed of the rest. They are in that boat moving out there. But, of course, that other bay’s the really exciting one.” He nodded casually to the east. “Casino’s over there, jammed full of them. And there’s the town, too. Well, we’ll soon know what happened.” His calm voice had brought them to the boat, and the bullet splashes were now behind them.
The boat curved out into the bay to follow the others.
The roar of its engine hid the clatter of machine-guns from the beach. The water shoreward was cut and furrowed.
“Gawd, throwing stick grenades and all,” a soldier said. “Everything but the kitchen sink.” A second voice said, “No good!” with mock concern. “Wouldn’t they like us to fire at them and show them what to hit? Poor old Jerry can’t get on the target...what a bleeding shame!” Other voices were talking, too, counting wounds, remembering jokes, now that they were leaving the bay with a flaunting trail of foam behind them.
But Hearne, kneeling beside Anne, heard neither the roar of the engines, nor the broken rhythm of the machine-guns on the beach, nor the jubilant voices of the men. He only heard the strangled breathing of the girl, only felt the warm trickle of blood from her mouth. He watched the face of the man who had pushed him aside, watched the skilful fingers working by the ghastly light of the flares straining their way up into the sky.
The officer returned from his tour of the crowded boat. “Worst is over now,” he said as he looked down at Anne. “We got her in time, I think. By the way, do you happen to be Matthews’ young man who was to be picked up on Saturday? Matthews was fuming when he found we had this operation all planned for tonight. Might have been nasty if you had crossed the Nazis’ trail when they were on the warpath.”
Hearne shook his head. Better that than this. Better that than Anne lying at his feet with a bullet in her lung. He pressed her hand convulsively.
She opened her eyes, and he knew there would be a smile in them if he could see clearly.
The last flare filtered away. Above them was the drone of planes, searching in vain. The stark coast of Brittany had darkened into the night. But the coldness had left his heart. Within his grasp, Anne’s hand moved gently, hopefully.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Helen MacInnes, whom the Sunday Express called ‘the Queen of spy writers’, was the author of many distinguished suspense novels.
Born in Scotland, she studied at the University of Glasgow and University College, London, then went to Oxford after her marriage to Gilbert Highet, the eminent critic and educator. In 1937 the Highets went to New York, and except during her husband’s war service, Helen MacInnes lived there ever since.
Since her first novel Above Suspicion was published in 1941 to immediate success, all her novels have been bestsellers; The Salzburg Connection was also a major film.
Helen MacInnes died in September 1985.
ALSO AVAILABLE FROM TITAN BOOKS
HELEN MacINNES
A series of slick espionage thrillers from the New York Times bestselling “Queen of Spy Writers.”
Pray for a Brave Heart
Above Suspicion
North From Rome (August 2012)
Decision at Delphi (September 2012)
The Venetian Affair (October 2012)
The Salzburg Connection (November 2012)
PRAISE FOR HELEN MacINNES
“The queen of spy writers.” Sunday Express
“Definitely in the top class.” Daily Mail
“The hallmarks of a MacInnes novel of suspense are as individual and as clearly stamped as a Hitchcock thriller.” The New York Times
TITANBOOKS.COM
Assignment in Brittany Page 36
