Ramage & the Guillotine (34 page)

“The Frenchman,” the officer persisted, “this Louis Peyrachon: where is he?”

“In his room at the Hotel de la Poste, I imagine,” Ramage said, playing for time as he absorbed the good news that the police officer had just revealed. “Or with my foreman in the
bordello.
How else to spend a Saturday night in a town like Amiens? You French do not know how to live! Everyone seems to go to bed as soon as the sun goes down!”

“What did you arrange with him?”

“Arrange? What do you mean by that? After we had supper he went downstairs to play cards with your precious Lieutenant, and I did not see him again until he came upstairs with the Lieutenant after that silly girl started screaming.”

The police officer nodded, as though what Ramage had just said fitted in with information received from other sources. “Where did you meet this man?”

“I told you that last night. I didn't ‘meet' him; he was ordered to travel with me. Which ministry he works for I do not know—he did not tell me, and I did not ask. I resented—and still resent—having someone escorting me everywhere, as though I was a dog on a leash.”

“Is it not strange, M'sieur, that the moment a young woman screams because she finds a man in the room of a naval courier, two men in your suite suddenly vanish?”

“
Two
men vanish?” Ramage exclaimed, his surprise unfeigned. “Are you referring to the Frenchman? How can you say he vanished when I saw him—the Lieutenant and the landlord can confirm that—in the corridor afterwards? I did not see my foreman from the time I went to bed, but the Frenchman, Louis, I did see. And don't refer to him as being in my ‘suite;' he was a thoroughly unwelcome addition, I assure you; as unwelcome as the
grippe
my foreman and I caught here in Amiens.”

“The Frenchman was not in his room this morning.”

“So?”

“The room was completely empty,” the officers said.

“You mean he left with all the furniture?” Ramage asked sarcastically, still trying to gauge whether the policeman was setting some sort of trap.

“Of course not!” He was getting impatient at last, Ramage noted, with eye winking and shoulder twitching. “I mean he packed his bag and vanished.”

“I hope he has gone to Paris to report to his masters that you have locked Signor Gianfranco di Stefano in your stinking prison.”

“We shall know in good time,” the officer said, obviously unperturbed at the prospect. “In the meantime one of my men is riding to Boulogne. He has instructions to see if you are known at Admiral Bruix's headquarters, and to inquire into your passport and travel documents. What answers will he get, M'sieur?”

“You make a habit of asking questions that no one could possibly answer!”

“I'll ask you one that you can answer, then. In Paris, at the Ministry of Marine, what was the name of the official who arranged your visit to Boulogne?”

“Official? I saw at least a dozen. I asked to see the Minister, but I was passed from one man to another. I told one of them that the way they were treating me, anyone would think I was going to try to steal the Invasion Flotilla, instead of help to build it!”

“Surely you can remember at least one name?”

“Well, I can't; why should I remember the names of petty officials?” he said arrogantly. “Imbeciles, most of them—” he suddenly had an inspiration, “and so obsessed with secrecy they must regard their names as State secrets, judging from the way they behave. They all talk out of the sides of their mouths, like this.” Ramage pulled a face. “Who do they suspect—their colleagues in the ministries? Who do they suspect of being spies—those same colleagues?”

“I neither know nor care what goes on in Paris,” the officer said obstinately. “I am only concerned with what goes on here in Amiens.”

“But why are you keeping me in prison?”

“Because I have inquiries to make in Boulogne.”

“Why cannot I stay at the Hotel? No one can travel in France without documents.”

“The two men travelling with you have just vanished,” the policeman said coldly. “If I release you, what is to stop you vanishing as well?”

“I don't know what has been going on,” Ramage said angrily, “but if I had anything to do with it, surely I would have vanished too, instead of going to bed!”

“Perhaps—who knows?” the policeman said, shrugging his shoulders. “The whole thing is a puzzle.”

“What was stolen from the Lieutenant's room?”

“Nothing as far as we know, but—”

“There you are!” Ramage interrupted crossly.
“Nothing
has been stolen; all that seems to have happened is my foreman and the landlord's daughter had an assignation in the Lieutenant's room. For that
I
am locked up!”

“I was going to say that the Lieutenant was carrying a satchel full of letters and despatches from Admiral Bruix's headquarters to the Ministry of Marine. Until the Lieutenant arrives in Paris we do not know if any of those letters and despatches were stolen.”

“Why on earth should anyone want to steal a few letters?”

“They are State secrets!”

“In that case,” Ramage pointed out sourly, “why would anyone steal just one or two? Why not the whole satchel?”

“Be patient,” the policeman said. “As soon as the inquiries are complete …” He left the sentence unfinished and went to the door. “If you want anything better than prison fare, you can send out to the hotel. You pay for it, of course.”

Ramage found the rest of Sunday the longest day he had ever experienced, but Monday was far worse. The walls of the cell were so thick that apart from a few street noises coming through the tiny window and an occasional sound from inside the building which managed to penetrate the thick wooden door, he might have been sitting on a raft in the middle of the Western Ocean: his sense of isolation was almost overwhelming.

He could do nothing about trying to escape until Wednesday … He found himself looking forward to the arrival of the turnkey who brought his meals from the hotel, even though the man was a sullen brute who took an obvious delight in slamming the tray down on the floor so hard that soup slopped over the edge of the bowl and meat slid off the plate on to the dusty flagstones.

The turnkey was his only visitor on Monday, and he spent most of the day wondering what has happened to Louis and Stafford and speculating whether, if he could not escape, he would eventually be given a trial or simply marched out and executed. The inquiries in Boulogne ruled out any chance of his being released. In an otherwise uncertain world, that much was sure enough.

Even as he sat on the wooden cot he imagined a gendarme visiting various offices in Boulogne—no doubt he had been given a list—and systematically asking if they had had any discussions with an Italian named Gianfranco di Stefano, shipbuilder. One after another the officials would say no … and, with the last office visited, and the last official questioned, the man would return to Amiens and report.

By then the Lieutenant would be back after delivering his satchel to the Ministry in Paris. All the seals would have been examined closely. Had Stafford been a little careless this time, a little too confident? Ramage cursed himself for not examining the seal after the despatch had been done up again. Would it stand comparison with a new seal? Had the wax sagged slightly? Not obvious if you compared it with another one that had not been opened and re-sealed?

They had thought of a clerk—or even the Minister—picking up the despatch and breaking the seal: unless there was something radically wrong about the impression, it would not arouse suspicion. He had not thought—though perhaps he was being unfair to Stafford, who was a shrewd enough fellow—in terms of the seal being closely compared with others.

The net was gradually tightening; there was no escaping that fact. Evidence would soon be on its way to Amiens from Boulogne that would show that Signor di Stefano was not the man he claimed to be. That evidence would be damning enough, and anyway the police officer would soon hear from Paris. If the report from the Ministry of Marine said that the seal of the despatch from Admiral Bruix had been tampered with, then Signor di Stefano had an appointment with the Widow across the
place
without delay. If they found nothing wrong with the seal there might be a respite.

He shivered as he thought that his life might depend on a piece of wax; on whether or not suspicious men in Paris could detect that a wax seal had been opened and stuck down again. His life was balanced, not on a knife edge but on a piece of sealing-wax.

The landlord of the Hotel de la Poste had obviously made up his mind that Signor di Stefano would not be a guest at his establishment again: he was charging exactly double the normal price for each meal, and insisting on a large deposit against the bowl, plate, mug, and tray. Some of the meat was so tough that Ramage had difficulty in tearing it apart with his fingers and, even worse, the tray was too flimsy to use as a weapon.

By two o'clock in the afternoon of Tuesday, Ramage was counting the hours to Wednesday morning, when he could begin to watch for an opportunity to escape. Then the door of the cell swung open unexpectedly. A gendarme walked in with a pistol, motioning Ramage to stand in a corner. A moment later two more gendarmes came in and one of them tossed a pair of irons on the floor by Ramage's feet. “Put them on your wrists,” he ordered.

As soon as Ramage had fitted them, the man slid a padlock through the slot and locked it. He gave Ramage a push towards the door. “Come this way.”

Ramage, expecting another interrogation by the police officer, was startled to find himself escorted into a large room in the centre of which was a long table. Three men sat at the table, one in the middle of the far side and one at each end. Halfway between the door and the table was a chair, and the escorts marched him up to it.

The man sitting at the end of the table on Ramage's right was the gaunt police officer, now freshly shaven, with his uniform newly pressed and his cocked hat resting on the table in front of him, as though it was a symbol of authority.

Sitting at the middle of the table was a plump, sharp-eyed man who was not in uniform. His hair was iron-grey and he was watching every move that Ramage made. The third man wore a uniform Ramage did not recognize, but he had similar gaunt features to the police officer at the other end of the table: their eyes were sunken and they reminded Ramage of the paintings he had seen of the Inquisition at work: ruthless men, burning with zeal but cold and detached, who put no value on human life as they sought out heretics with the tenacity of sharks round a piece of bloody meat.

The police officer turned towards Ramage and said: “This is a tribunal set up under the relevant section of the military code. Sit down and—”

“What am I—”

“—sit down and remain silent while the preliminaries are completed.”

Ramage sat down and tried to compose himself: he was an Italian shipbuilder, unwashed and unshaven but on his dignity. He would keep up the pretence for as long as possible, and after that remain silent. Well, perhaps not silent; he would be able to give them a few jabs with his tongue. It was the only satisfaction he was likely to get since they had the guillotine to ensure the last laugh.

“Gianfranco di Stefano?”

Ramage glanced up: it was the man in the centre of the table who had spoken. Now was as good a time as any to start prodding. “Yes, but you have the advantage of me.” It did not translate well into French and he suddenly remembered that it was an English phrase. Anyone who spoke English well enough would be suspicious at hearing it said in French by an alleged Italian. The Frenchman smiled; an amiable smile, but also the smile of a man who knew he had all the advantages.

“Signor di Stefano, this tribunal has assembled by the order of the Military Governor of the district of Amiens, and I am appointed its judge.
Citoyen
Houdan—” he gestured to the police officer, “is the prosecutor and
Citoyen
Garlin will present your defence.” Both men nodded at Ramage; cold and distant nods, the kind of nods a farmer gives when selecting particular animals to go to the slaughterhouse.

“I will read the charges,” the judge said, picking up the top sheet from a small pile of papers in front of him. “‘That the said Gianfranco di Stefano did illegally enter the Republic of France for the purpose of spying; that the said Gianfranco di Stefano, using stolen and forged passports and travel documents, did travel to Boulogne for the purpose of spying on the Invasion Flotilla and on the encampments of the Army of England; that the said Gianfranco di Stefano did stay in Amiens for the purpose of spying on the courier carrying State documents between the headquarters of Vice-Admiral Bruix at Boulogne and the Ministry of Marine and Colonies in Paris; that the said Gianfranco di Stefano and two accomplices did attempt to intercept the said documents; and that the crimes listed above, each and every one, are punishable by death under the military and civil codes of the Republic.'”

The judge looked up at Ramage. “You understand the charges?”

“I am an Italian subject; I request a translator.”

“Request refused,” the judge said brusquely. “How do you plead?”

“Does it make any difference?” Ramage asked sarcastically.

“Yes, it makes a considerable difference,” the judge said, missing the sarcasm. “If you confess, it will save the tribunal's time.”

“Confess to what?”

“To the crimes with which you are charged, of course,” the judge said impatiently.

“The charges are very flattering seen through the eyes of a simple Italian shipbuilder; but I would be boasting if I confessed to such things.”

“Oh, we have no objection to you boasting,” the judge said quickly. “If you wish to confess …”