Léon indicated the newspaper lying on the table beside his glass. ‘In there.’
He transmitted to London that evening from his hotel room, urgently requesting to be picked up and returned to England. Leaving the café, he had simply swopped newspapers with Léon and it wasn’t until he had reached his room that he had been able to see for himself that the plumber had been speaking the truth. The tracings were there, folded over and sandwiched neatly between the pages. He had gone through them quickly, the German words leaping out at him: sofort-program – highest priority construction; bunker, blockhaus, kanal, kai, trocken-dock, werkstatt . . .
In the morning he caught the train to Pont-Aven. It was very cold for April and the few customers Chez Alphonse had kept their coats on. Alphonse was mortified.
‘The boiler has broken down, monsieur, and we have no heating. There is no spare part to mend it. It’s a tragedy. I can offer you some potage paysanne to keep you warm and there is a filet de boeuf garni but I have to confess that there is almost no meat in it. However, there is still some wine, I’m happy to say – specially for you, monsieur. I have still managed to save. Thank God, the summer is not far away.’
He ate with the suitcase propped against his chair leg and the newspaper beside him which, from time to time, he pretended to read. At the end of the meal, when the other customers had gone, Alphonse returned to the table with two small glasses of cognac.
‘Not the best, I’m sorry to say, but it’s the only kind that’s left.’ He sat down and raised his glass. ‘Your good health, monsieur. How is it going with you? I haven’t seen you for some time.’
He lifted his glass in response. ‘Not so bad, thank you. But I need your help, Alphonse.’
‘My help? Certainly. What can I do for you?’
‘I need to hide something – just for a little while – but in a very safe place. Somewhere our friends, the Germans, would never think of looking. Is there anywhere in here?’
‘How big is this thing?’
‘The size of a newspaper. This one.’
Alphonse stared at it, bewildered. ‘So much trouble for a newspaper . . . and a week old at least, by the look of it.’
‘It’s very important that it’s not found, you understand?’
Alphonse shrugged. ‘If you say so, monsieur. You have your good reasons, no doubt, and with the Boche one cannot be too careful. Let me think for a moment.’ He frowned and then his brow cleared. ‘I have just the place. The broken-down boiler. It’s in the basement. The Germans are very fussy, you know. Very fastidious. They’d never dream that anyone would hide anything of importance in such a filthy, dirty place. And if they should see an old newspaper they will think it’s there simply for burning, though heaven knows when the boiler will be working again.’
Mademoiselle Citron came out of her room as soon as he entered the hall, carrying his suitcase. She must spend nearly all her day at her window looking onto the street, he decided.
‘You have returned, monsieur?’
‘Clearly, mademoiselle.’ He continued towards the stairs.
‘Major Winter was enquiring after you. I told him that I had no idea where you were, but I thought you would be bound to be back soon.’
‘Did you indeed?’
‘Yes, it has become your habit. To come and to go.’
He turned from the stairs to see her looking up at him in her malevolent way; this time, he thought, tinged even more unpleasantly with something else. Something he could not define. ‘Well, now you can inform the major of my return.’
He went on up to his studio. It was very cold, though not as cold as Chez Alphonse. He coaxed some lukewarm heat from the radiators. All he could do now was wait to receive the answer from London. In the evening he switched on the wireless and tuned into the BBC French language news bulletin. Among the personal messages read out afterwards was the one he was hoping to hear. Les narcisses sont en fleur. The MTB would leave England the following night to pick him up. First thing in the morning he would collect the newspaper from its hiding place. He would take the train across Brittany – a journey that could easily take all day with changes and delays – to St Brieuc, which would bring him within a few easy kilometres of the Bonaparte beach and the rendezvous with the boat.
He poured a cognac and lit another cigarette and sat down to listen to some of his records: a Beethoven symphony, some Berlioz, a few soothing Liszt piano pieces. He half-expected Major Winter to knock on the door and almost welcomed the idea of a little civilized conversation to pass the time. Perhaps even another bottle of Courvoisier? But when the knock came – much later and in the middle of the night when he was in bed asleep – it wasn’t the major in his smart grey Wehrmacht uniform. The visitor wore a civilian raincoat and a soft brown hat. He knew at once who he was. A member of the Geheime Staats Polizei: the Gestapo.
Fifteen
Harry had been very reluctant to take the risk of sending an MTB with barely enough hours of darkness available to provide effective cover.
‘We don’t know what Duval’s on about. The message didn’t give us a clue. It could be all about nothing – you know how excitable the French can be. No sense of proportion.’
‘I don’t believe he’s like that. I think his judgement is very sound. When he says it’s of vital importance, it is. A fishing boat would take far too long to fetch him back.’
In the end he’d won and there had not been so much difficulty, this time, in persuading Harry that he should go across too, and that Lieutenant Smythson could be a useful addition to the party.
‘Well, it’s your show, Alan. You’d better be the one to make damn certain it works.’
It was somewhat ironic, he thought, that he should be so determined to bring back a man he wished anywhere but in Dartmouth. The last information they had received from Duval had stated that he was returning to Pont-Aven to wait for the broadcast confirmation of the pickup. Providing he had been able to get from there to the rendezvous at Bonaparte beach in time and on time, everything should go according to plan. Harry was quite right, of course. The big danger lay in the shorter nights: if he wasn’t there, they couldn’t wait around to be spotted at dawn by the Germans. By daylight they had to be at least thirty miles away from the French coast.
There was only a moderate westerly swell and for most of the crossing they made a steady fifteen knots, creeping up to eighteen when the wind eased off and the sea became calmer. He had begun to feel that luck was with them when a faulty fuel pump caused an engine breakdown. By the time it had been repaired, much precious time had been lost. Some way off the coast the lookout reported a light flashing from the direction of St Malo which almost certainly meant enemy shipping in the area. Another hazard. They watched the light flash intermittently for a while before it stopped.
The same young sub lieutenant navigated them accurately to the spot where they had dropped anchor before. No signal could be sent to the shore, but it had been pre-arranged that Duval should flash an agreed Morse code letter with a hand-torch. Nothing could be seen: no signal of any kind from the darkness of the shore. After waiting another ten minutes, Powell decided to go ahead with the landing, in the hope that Duval would have arrived at the beach meanwhile. The surf boat was rolled silently over the side and he took Smythson along, with two of the crew at the oars. He had calculated that they would now have only fifteen minutes left to stay on the beach.
They reached the shore. There was no sign of Duval or, so far as they could tell, of any Germans. Powell walked in one direction while Smythson went off in the other. He had reached the furthest end and turned to go back when he saw a light coming onto the beach. His first thought was that it must be Duval and then he dismissed the idea: the Frenchman was certainly not that careless and his signalling would have been from a small hand-torch. This light, from a large and powerful lamp, came steadily towards his end of the beach, sweeping to and fro, and now he could hear the crunch of boots and, as they drew nearer, t
he sound of German voices and, still more chillingly, the savage bark of a dog.
He retreated into the shelter of some sand dunes while the night patrol went past and then back the other way, the dog straining on its lead. As soon as they saw the light the surf boat crew would have rowed away from the shore. Lieutenant Smythson, he reckoned, could look after himself. The dog, he realized, knew they were there and barked its warning several more times. All might still have been well if the German patrol had not stayed. They stopped and put down the lamp. He could hear them talking, see the flare of matches lighting cigarettes. Occasionally the dog barked knowingly again but was ignored; he heard it yelp once, presumably from a well-placed boot. The minutes ticked by and still the Germans stayed, and stayed. By the time they finally left Powell knew that it was too late for the surf boat to come back.
‘Where did you get the radio transmitter?’
‘A man gave me the suitcase at the railway station. I’d never seen him before. He asked me to keep it safe for him. I didn’t know the transmitter was there.’
‘You’re lying.’
He wouldn’t have believed it himself, but it was the best he could think of.
‘I ask you again, where did you get it?’
‘Like I said, from the man at the station—’
They hit him once more with the truncheon – across the mouth this time.
‘Who are you working for?’
He spat out a tooth. ‘Nobody.’
‘Is it the British?’
‘How could it be?’
‘We know that you have left Pont-Aven several times in the past months. Where did you go?’
Thank you, Mademoiselle Citron. ‘I’m an artist. It’s my habit to look for new scenes to paint.’
‘Have you been to England?’
‘To England? How could I?’
‘You went in a boat. You returned in a boat. You are an agent working for the British. Who else in Pont-Aven is working for them? Give us their names.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
They hit him again, harder.
After the German patrol had gone, Powell went in search of Smythson. They met up in the darkness, somewhere along the beach.
‘Bit of bad luck that, sir. What now?’
He had already decided the next move, which was to get to Pont-Aven and find out what had happened to Duval and why he had needed to return so urgently. Easier planned than done. Lieutenant Smythson, like the rest of the gunboat crew, was wearing civilian clothing – white fisherman’s jersey, reefer jacket and old flannel trousers – and he had had the commendable foresight to carry his old French papers, whereas Powell, clinging to his traditional ways, had kept on his naval uniform and was hardly likely to walk around France unnoticed. He saw himself as Smythson must see him – a middle-aged, stuffy stick-in-the-mud, now paying the price. And he remembered, with pain, Harry’s amused comment – that he’d stick out like a sore thumb in France.
The lieutenant said, ‘I wonder if I might make a suggestion, sir?’
‘Is it a good one?’
‘I think so. We find the nearest house and get French clothes and papers for you. And money.’
‘Do you imagine they’re going to hand them over – just like that?’
‘No, sir.’ Smythson patted his pocket. ‘But you see, I happen to have my service revolver.’
They made their way across the sand dunes behind the beach. With no moon and no lights to guide them progress was slow, but no night is completely dark and the better their eyes adjusted, the more they could see. About a mile inland, they came across a cottage standing on its own.
Powell said firmly, ‘We have to know first if there’s a man roughly my size and age. We’ll wait till they’re up and about.’ The lieutenant, he could tell, was all for rushing in immediately. ‘There’s no point risking it for no gain.’
They found shelter in some kind of shed that seemed to contain a variety of tools, sacks and wooden crates and, as it gradually grew lighter, they took turns to keep watch on the house. It was Powell’s turn when, at last, the door of the cottage opened and a man came out. He looked considerably older than himself, and several inches shorter, but the clothes were good – loose-fitting labourer’s clothes. He motioned to the lieutenant to take a look.
‘How about just asking them politely for help?’
Smythson shook his head. ‘Too uncertain, sir. They might help, but they might not. More likely not. They’ll be too scared, I should think. Shall I do the talking, sir? They can be hard to understand.’
‘All right. But I’ll take the gun.’
They watched their quarry go towards a dilapidated chicken coop and bend down to undo some kind of hatch.
Smythson spoke low in his ear. ‘He’s coming this way now, sir. Probably getting food for the hens.’
They stood behind the door and the man came into the shed and, with his back turned, began to scoop out grain from a sack into a bowl. Powell stepped forward and stuck the revolver into his back. Lieutenant Smythson did the talking as though he had been holding up people all his life, and it was as well he did, since the Breton’s terrified gabble was incomprehensible to Powell.
‘He says his ID’s in the cottage, sir. He keeps it safe in there.’
‘Tell him to lead the way.’
The cottage was a dark, damp little hovel. There was a chair or two, a table with an oil lamp burning above it, a dresser against the wall, a peasant woman standing at a prehistoric range, stirring a black pot with a wooden spoon. As they came in, she turned and gave a shriek of terror and dropped the spoon.
Powell said in his polite English-accented French, ‘There is nothing to be afraid of, madame, so long as you do what we tell you.’
She looked at him blankly, hand clamped over her mouth, eyes wide, and Smythson growled something else. She backed away towards a dresser and groped clumsily in a green jug on one of the shelves. Smythson stepped forward.
‘Here you are, sir. This should do the trick.’
The card showed an indistinct photo of the man. Nom: Cordet; Prénom: Jean; Né le 4.5.1894 à Trévos. With a jolt he realized that he was almost exactly the same age as himself – same year, same month – just two days apart. Domicile. Départment . . . He readonrapidly down the card, translating the French. Profession: agricultural worker. Height – in metres, of course, but considerably shorter than himself. Hair: brown. Moustache: none. General shape of face: oval. Eyes: brown – something vital in common. Distinguishing particulars: none. The signature was a semi-literate scrawl, the stamp – imprinted no less than three times in different places – the proud marque of the local mairie. The right-hand thumb print in the corner was so smudged he doubted anyone but an expert could have deciphered it.
‘Tell him to get some clothes – a jacket, trousers, and a hat, if he has one.’
The man looked mutinous but the woman spoke sharply to him and he left the room, accompanied by Smythson who had borrowed the gun. Powell was left alone with the woman who was still cowering by the dresser. He wanted to reassure her but it was safer that she remained in that state. Instead he barked out as menacingly as he could, ‘Argent, madame. Tout ce que vous avez. Vite.’
The poor wretch turned again to the green jug and pulled out a little wad of franc notes and then, delving deeper, some coins. She put them on the table and stammered something at him. It was probably all their savings, he thought, and swore to himself that after the war, he would see that the exact sum was returned to them.
Smythson came back with the man carrying a bundle of clothes. ‘His Sunday best, sir. He doesn’t have much of a wardrobe.’
‘I’ve got all the money they seem to have.’ He looked again at the woman. ‘Tell her they’ll get it back one day.’
Smythson said something in kinder tones. ‘I’m afraid she doesn’t believe us, sir. She thinks you’re German, by the way. Something to do with your accent and the uniform. They h
ave been known to muddle us up. I didn’t enlighten her.’
They left the cottage and headed for a nearby copse where Powell changed into the farm-worker’s Sunday best – black jacket, trousers, shirt, waistcoat. They smelled of damp and sweat and mothballs, with a greenish tinge to the shiny black and, by the age and style of them, were probably handed down from a previous generation. They were also far too small, the trousers ending above the ankles, the jacket sleeves halfway up his arms. He couldn’t get the man’s shoes on at all but fortunately his own, normally highly polished ones were dull and dirty from seawater and sand. Smythson produced a beret apologetically from his pocket.
‘This was the only hat he had, sir.’
He would have drawn the line at wearing it, except for the fact that it covered his very English haircut. The lieutenant, he could see, was biting his lower lip.
‘Excuse me, sir. That’s not quite how they wear it. Shall I show you?’
They buried his Royal Navy uniform and, with it, the gun. It had served its purpose and if they were searched for any reason, it could only get them into trouble. As they covered the burial spot with leaves, he said, ‘The gun was loaded, wasn’t it, Lieutenant?’
‘Actually, no, sir.’ Smythson smiled brightly. ‘But of course, they didn’t know that, did they?’
‘I will ask you again, who gave you the radio transmitter?’
‘I told you – a stranger at the railway station. He asked me to look after his suitcase.’
‘We do not believe you. The transmitter was made by the British. You are working for them, as an agent.’
‘How could I be? I’m a painter. I know nothing about such things.’
‘Where do you go when you leave Pont-Aven?’
‘To Paris, to sell my work and to visit my wife.’
‘Where else?’
‘I look for places to paint. I go everywhere. It’s my habit.’
‘What are the names of other people in France who are working with you?’
The questions went on and on. In between there was the pain. Terrible pain. But they would never learn the names. Jean-Claude, Marthe, Jacques, Paul, Léon, Jeanne, André and all the others . . . they would never learn them from him.
Those in Peril Page 27
