Those in Peril

by Margaret Mayhew

  ‘What a pleasure to see you again after all these years, my old friend. Come and sit down.’

  Powell was gestured to the chair in front of the desk and heard the office door click shut behind him. The mayor went on, speaking in loud tones. ‘How have you been? You must tell me all your news.’ He held a finger to his lips, went over to the door, opened it and shut it again before returning to his desk. ‘We can talk now. That woman is admirable in many respects but she sees her role as my guard dog and she has a naturally suspicious mind. She tells me that you have a strange foreign accent, which intrigued me. I couldn’t recall any very old friend of mine with any such thing and, naturally, the moment I saw you I also realized that we had never met in our lives. Also, I realized – which fortunately she did not – that you are almost certainly English, in spite of the clothes and that newspaper that you are carrying.’

  ‘Is it that obvious?’

  ‘To me, yes. To others, perhaps not so much. I have come across a number of Englishmen over the years. They have a particular look. A certain style. There is something about them that sets them apart. But what in the name of heaven are you doing in Pont-Aven?’

  He said, ‘I’m here to find out what has happened to Louis Duval.’

  ‘Ah . . . that explains it, in part, at least. I am aware that Louis has been active in certain directions, shall we say.’

  ‘Do you have any news of him?’

  ‘Nothing good, I regret to tell you. The Gestapo arrested him two days ago.’

  ‘I’ve already learned that. Do you know on what grounds?’

  ‘My dear friend, this is not as in your free country. Our Nazi masters make their own laws. They can arrest whom they please and keep them incarcerated for as long as they like. They don’t need to give public reasons. They may have had reason to suspect Louis, or somebody may have denounced him with a trumped-up story.’

  ‘His landlady, for example?’

  ‘You’ve heard about her? Yes, it’s very possible. Women are often at the root of any trouble, in my experience. I warned him to be careful of her. You should stay well away from her at all costs. They are probably watching the place. Cigarette?’

  He accepted the Gauloise and the light, with thanks. The French tobacco made him cough. ‘Do you know where they’ve taken him?’

  ‘No idea. And it would be difficult – perhaps even suspicious – to try to find out. I regret to say that there is nothing that can be done to help him. We can only hope for the best. It’s very sad.’

  Powell said, ‘He had a radio transmitter and he sent a message, asking to be returned to England urgently. Do you have any idea why? Did he talk to you about it?’

  ‘No. I haven’t seen or spoken to him for a long while. I didn’t even know that he was back in Pont-Aven – not until I heard about the arrest. Bad news travels fast in a small town like this. But if the Gestapo found the radio, then he’s in real trouble.’ Masseron pulled open the bottom drawer of his desk. ‘A little cognac, monsieur? I think we could both do with one.’

  He took the glass of brandy that was passed across. ‘I see you have one of his paintings.’

  ‘Good, isn’t it? I bought it from him years ago – before he got expensive. Those standing stones are near here. If you were a tourist I should advise you to go and see them, and a good deal else of interest. This is a delightful area. As it is, I can only advise you to leave as soon as possible. Do you have some kind of plan for returning to England – if I may ask such an indiscreet question?’

  ‘We’ll probably go south to the Unoccupied Zone and try to cross to Spain.’

  ‘We?’

  ‘There’s another Englishman with me. A naval lieutenant.’

  ‘My God! Two of you at large in my town.’

  Powell smiled. ‘He’s actually half-French and looks rather more convincing than me.’

  ‘Just as well. No offence to you, of course. But you will need papers, my friend.’

  ‘We have them – identity papers, at least.’

  ‘That’s something. But if you wish to travel into the Unoccupied Zone you will need more than that. A special Ausweis, for example. The Boche adore papers and they insist on them.’

  ‘I was hoping that you might be able to help us in that respect.’

  ‘It’s dangerous for me.’

  ‘I realize that.’

  The mayor studied his brandy glass thoughtfully for a moment. ‘You can, perhaps, do me a favour in return.’

  ‘What favour?’

  ‘I have a son – an only son – sixteen years old. Luc is a fine boy but also a foolish one. Like most young men of his age, he has a hot head and no sense of self-preservation. His principal recreation is to bait the Germans in every way he can. It’s only a matter of time before he is arrested. Sent to a labour camp, or forced to join their army, or something equally undesirable. In return for my helping you, I should like you to take him with you. Take him to England for the duration of the war. He’ll be safe over there.’

  ‘You’ve a great deal of faith in us – considering how things stand with the war at the moment.’

  ‘We French must have faith in something, my friend. It keeps us going. So, will you take him?’

  ‘If you accept the risk to him – yes.’

  ‘It’s smaller than if he stays here. And he could make himself useful to you. He could pass as your son. We can arrange papers for that. Invent some good story.’

  Smythson could pass as another son, Powell thought wryly. A family group, no less, with him as paterfamilias. He glanced at his watch. ‘I’ve arranged to meet the lieutenant soon.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘A café in the rue de port: Chez Alphonse.’

  ‘Louis went there all the time. Alphonse might have some news. He hears all the talk.’

  Powell shook his head. ‘We’ve already asked him. He knows nothing.’

  ‘So, what will you do after that?’

  ‘Find somewhere to stay the night.’

  ‘You can stay with us, my friend. We have a large house with an attic and you’ll both be safe enough up there. My wife, Anne-Marie, will make a big moan about it, but she’ll cook you a superb meal, I guarantee you.’ The mayor smiled. ‘And we must do something about those clothes that you are wearing. They don’t fit you at all.’

  The café was empty except for its proprietor. Powell could see him through the glass door, laying tables and flicking and flapping about him with a napkin. He opened the door and went in. Alphonse came forward, lifting his hands.

  ‘Ah, monsieur . . . I regret that I am not yet prepared. If you would care to return in another half-hour . . .’

  ‘Just a glass of wine – if possible.’

  ‘A glass of wine is always possible, monsieur. Please be seated – anywhere that you choose.’

  He chose the same corner table, well away from the windows, and sat down, the newspaper beside him. After a moment the proprietor returned with a small carafe of red wine. ‘The same as you had before, monsieur. It’s the best I can do. And there is more, if you wish.’

  ‘Thank you.’ He lit a cigarette. ‘My friend is meeting me here in a while.’

  ‘Well, you are welcome to drink until he arrives.’ Alphonse picked up a glass, breathed on it and polished it with the napkin. ‘You said that you were old friends of Monsieur Duval?’

  ‘That’s right. He comes here regularly?’

  ‘He used to – before this terrible war started. Since then he has not been here so much. He went south, you know – to Toulouse, I believe. And then he came back. Then off he went again, somewhere else. Of course, artists are not like others. We ordinary people must stay put, but they have restless souls. They must always look for things to paint, to be inspired. It’s a tragedy that he has been arrested – all because of a spiteful woman.’ Alphonse flapped his napkin in the direction of the prints on the walls. ‘Monsieur Duval’s work is just as good as those, in my opinion. He is already well-kn
own in France and one fine day, without doubt, he will be world-famous.’

  ‘When was he last in here?’

  ‘Only the other day. In fact, it was the very day that he was arrested. He had been away, I think – I don’t know exactly where – and he came in here for some lunch. I remember that he had the soup and then the filet de boeuf, though, as I was obliged to confess, there was scarcely a morsel of meat in the dish. One has to call it something and it keeps the spirits up if people can pretend a little. The soup was nothing to boast about either, but at least it was warming. It was a cold day, you know – and, as you may have noticed, there is no heating in here. The boiler has broken and who knows when it can be mended. There are no spare parts, you understand. But then everything is scarce in France, isn’t that so? It affects us all. It’s a disaster.’

  ‘What did he talk about?’

  Alphonse shrugged. ‘He did not come here to talk, monsieur. He came to eat, though, naturally, we had a little conversation. Monsieur Duval is always most agreeable – as you will know yourself, of course, being a friend of his.’ He put his head on one side, consideringly. ‘Forgive me for being personal, monsieur, but clearly you are not French. One can tell that from your accent, though I can’t place it exactly.’

  ‘My mother was English,’ Powell said, with perfect accuracy. ‘I picked it up from her.’

  ‘That explains it. Does she live in England?’

  ‘She died some years ago.’

  ‘My condolences, monsieur. One has only one mother. More wine?’

  When the glass had been refilled, Powell said, ‘Monsieur Duval had something of great interest to tell me but I don’t know exactly what it was. It’s rather a mystery. That’s why I wondered if he had said anything about it to you.’

  Alphonse shook his head. ‘Not a word. And I regret that he made no mention of you, monsieur. None at all.’

  ‘Never mind.’

  ‘Unless, of course, it was to do with the newspaper.’

  ‘Newspaper?’

  ‘Yes, it was very strange. He had a newspaper with him – already several days old. He wanted to hide it somewhere very safe. I have no idea why. People are always hiding things these days, isn’t that so? Anything that is precious to them, they hide from the Boche – money, jewels, valuable ornaments, paintings, wine . . . they make sure it can’t be taken away from them. The Boche take everything, don’t they? The swine.’

  ‘Do you know where he hid it?’

  ‘I hid it for him, monsieur. In the broken-down boiler in the cellar. It’s a very safe place. The Germans would never search there – it’s too dirty. Besides, who would imagine an old newspaper to be of any interest? I wondered myself if Monsieur Duval had had some kind of brainstorm. Painters are often disposed to such things, I believe. Like Van Gogh, for instance. They say he went completely mad.’

  Powell said casually, ‘Is this newspaper still there?’

  ‘Certainly. I have left it there, as he wished. God willing, he will be able to return to collect it.’

  ‘Could you show me? Perhaps it has something to do with what he wanted to tell me. Some article of particular interest to me, perhaps.’

  ‘If you wish.’

  He picked up his own newspaper and followed the proprietor through to the back of the café and the kitchen beyond, where an immensely fat woman, busy filleting fish, ignored them completely. Alphonse waved the napkin again. ‘My wife. She does the cooking. I do all the rest.’ A door led to stone steps going down into the cellar – a dark dungeon of a place, lit by one low-wattage electric bulb hanging on a cord from the centre of the ceiling. Alphonse indicated the near-empty wine racks. ‘Naturally, the best is elsewhere. I also hide what I can. The boiler is over here.’ He swung open the mouth of the iron monster crouched in the corner and groped around inside. ‘And here is the newspaper that Monsieur Duval left. But I doubt that it can be of any interest to you – or anybody else.’

  ‘May I look? Just in case.’

  ‘Certainly. But if you’ll forgive me, monsieur, I must get on with my work. Customers will be arriving soon for the evening and things are not ready.’

  The newspaper was rolled up into a cylinder and covered with ash. Powell brushed it clean and unrolled it carefully. The light was poor but he could feel and see that other sheets had been laid between its newsprint pages – very thin sheets that had been folded to the same size. He rolled up his own newspaper in the same way and buried it in the ashes before closing the boiler door. Duval’s paper he tucked under his arm.

  Upstairs, Smythson was waiting at the corner table, drinking the remains of the wine. Alphonse was spitting on a knife before polishing it energetically.

  ‘Another carafe, monsieur? Now that your friend has also arrived.’

  He ignored Smythson’s hopeful expression. ‘Unfortunately, we have to leave.’

  ‘Was it of any interest – the newspaper?’

  ‘None at all that I could see. I replaced it.’

  Alphonse shook his head. ‘Poor Monsieur Duval. It’s like I thought, he must have taken leave of his senses.’

  The German officer was smiling. He looked freshly shaved, his uniform well pressed, the buttons brightly polished, and the scent of some kind of expensive cologne hung about him. French cologne, Duval thought. Bought, no doubt, in Paris. The officer was holding out a silver box, the lid open.

  ‘Cigarette, Monsieur Duval?’

  Why not? He took one, though to hold it between his damaged lips was painfully difficult. Not French cigarettes though, an American brand: Chesterfields. Simone would have been pleased. The officer leaned across the desk offering a flame from a gold lighter. The flame met the end of the cigarette, stayed there a moment, as he inhaled. He let the smoke trickle out of the side of his mouth. The officer was lighting one for himself, sitting back in his chair and blowing the smoke up over his head.

  ‘So . . . things have been a little unpleasant for you, I understand.’

  An understatement, if ever there was one. Duval shrugged. Even that small movement made him wince. Speech itself was an effort.

  The officer looked sympathetic. ‘I’m sorry. Some of our people have rather crude methods. Personally, I’m against all that. I have nothing to do with the Geheime Staats Polizei, but you can understand why they were so suspicious – a radio transmitter concealed in a suitcase, and given to you by some stranger. On the face of it, it seems an unlikely story, but then the most unlikely are sometimes perfectly true.’ His French was stilted but faultless. A model of grammatical correctness. Another neat exhalation of smoke ceilingwards. ‘There is no reason to suspect you . . . an artist of renown who can surely have no interest in the dirty and dangerous business of espionage. And yet, some small explanation seems to be required. You do see that? I’d like to help get you out of here, so that you can get back to your painting as soon as possible. Tell me, by the way, what do you think of the work of our German artists today?’

  His answer was mumbled, but clear enough. ‘Mostly crap.’

  The officer chuckled. ‘I agree with you. Our Führer has very sentimental tastes and we have to pretend to appreciate them. You and I know better, of course. They interrogated your wife, Simone, in Paris by the way. It seems she knows nothing.’

  ‘We haven’t lived together for years.’

  ‘So she says. She has other interests. Other loyalties, it seems. She did mention that at the start of the war you had been thinking of going to England – before we arrived in France – but that you changed your mind. Is that correct?’

  He nodded slowly. Thank God he had never told her anything else.

  There was a short silence. ‘For myself, I have always admired the English. It’s a great pity to be at war with them. You know England?’

  He drew carefully on the cigarette without answering.

  ‘Of course you do. You lived there for a while. In St Ives, isn’t that so? I have never been there but I hear that it’s delightful.
Something of an artists’ colony, like Pont-Aven, which is even more charming. To tell the truth I prefer France to England, though I’m not so sure about the French. Perhaps the French should go and live in England and the English come to live in France and then this country would be perfect.’ Another chuckle. ‘I’m joking, of course. Where were we? Oh yes, trying to find some way to get you out of here. We must give them something to satisfy them, you see. Nothing very much. A name or two. Let’s start with people in Pont-Aven whom you know are engaged in a little amateur spying . . . you understand what I mean? Watching us, Germans, and passing on what they see and hear to somebody else, who passes it on to somebody else . . . that’s the sort of thing, isn’t it? Gossip, really. And mostly harmless, of course. There would be no question of severe punishment. Who do you know who is like that?’

  ‘Nobody.’

  The officer sighed. He flicked at some invisible speck on his sleeve. ‘Monsieur Duval, I’m trying to help you, please believe me. A name or two, that’s all, and you can be released. Go back to your studio, pick up your brushes and continue with your life.’

  Another silence, but longer. Since it hurt to speak, why bother when there was nothing to say?

  After a while, the German continued pleasantly, ‘I assume you know what the alternative will be? Unless you give them this information, you will be shot. So, I do advise you to be sensible. Let’s start again, shall we?’

  Madame Masseron – small and thin with black frizzy hair – was not pleased to see them. A stream of protest directed at high speed to her husband made that clear. As she left the room, the door shut behind her with such force that the walls shook. The mayor, however, seemed quite unmoved. He clapped Powell on the back.

  ‘Take no notice. She’ll be all right. Let’s have a drink while she gets on with the cooking. I’d have got rid of her long ago, but she’s a marvel in the kitchen. No good anywhere else, but there we are. We can’t have everything, can we?’

  He poured wine for them – far superior to the ordinaire Chez Alphonse – and a toast was drunk, first to France and then to England. Powell put down his glass.