The Last Two Weeks of Georges Rivac (19 page)

There was then no reason to hide by the path or the stream or to push through bushes with the risk of being heard. The two cameramen decided that they could conceal themselves and their apparatus within easy range of the van. The driver and Zia were to wait a few miles away until they received a radio signal that the van had left and it was safe to return.

The signal came through within half an hour. Gerald had run it close. The diggers must already have given up and been smoothing the ground by the time the cameras were in position. There had been four of Mr Appinger's friends; to judge by the description, one was last night's constable, one probably the boatman and two unknown. The triumphant operators had perfect pictures and were justifiably proud of Zia and themselves, for it had been nervous work at short notice without knowing whether the supposed enemy agents were armed or what precautions they might have taken. The three pressed her to have a drink with them in the nearest pub; as it happened to be the White Hart, she had regretfully to refuse. She was then handed back to the colonel with two hours daylight left.

‘Where's Gerald?' she asked.

‘I think we may find him at the Manor Farm—if a Mr Longwill has returned from the City.'

‘But I daren't go there.'

‘Well, what about this Mrs Daisy Taylor?'

‘If you can get me into her cottage without being seen.'

‘Will the village recognise you?'

‘Not necessarily. I've only been there once in daylight.'

‘How were you dressed?'

‘Lady. Country.'

‘Then we'll go back to the hitch-hiker I met in Kew Gardens, and you can have my reading glasses again if you don't lose them.'

‘But I was dressed like that last night.'

‘Never mind! They can't have started another watch on Alderton yet. And they know or think they know that Rivac is not there.'

‘Shall I get the brochures?'

The colonel hesitated, for once indecisive.

‘I think yes. Rivac or you? And as I don't yet know where Rivac is or how far Gerald is willing to protect him, it had better be you.'

‘But it doesn't matter any more if either of us is arrested.'

‘Doesn't it? What about your uncle and his club? What about keeping Appinger in the dark? And how about young Zia's photograph on the front page, real name Miss Terezia Fodor?'

‘I'd forgotten. It was all going so well.'

‘That's just when one trips up, my girl. Will you be safe if you spend the night with Mrs Taylor? We may need you, and I've had no time to make sure of your safety in London.'

‘I think so, provided I stay indoors.'

‘Then here's our story if we require one. I drove you down from London. I am staying with Longwill. You, for the sake of somewhat old-fashioned propriety, are sleeping at Mrs Taylor's rather than in a lewd bachelor establishment. I will call for you and the brochures at a natural hour—say, nine o'clock after breakfast. We don't want to arouse curiosity by starting too early. Let something blow over your face and jump straight into the car!'

‘And Georges Rivac?'

‘Gerald and I will find out from Longwill where he is and the best way of extracting him.'

Chapter Eight

The Sunday afternoon had dragged on for Georges through long hours of depression. The brochures were perfectly safe where they were, but nothing could be done with them. He too was perfectly safe where he was and useless to himself, to Zia and her Europe. The more his imagination ranged over village and town, river and mountain and all the trampled and loved earth between the Channel and the Black Sea, the more he felt guilt at hiding in a boyhood hole looked after by an indulgent nanny. The whole position was such a desperate muddle when it came to sensible planning. Mrs Fanshawe was known to the police, but not to Appinger. M Rivac was known to Appinger, but not yet to the police.

When dusk came down he was overcome by impatience. Where was the newly-aggressive Georges who was going to—going to what? Appinger's scratch organisation of outwardly respectable British bourgeois like the ice-cream man could do what they pleased and go where they liked, whereas M Rivac dared not show his nose without compromising Paul, Daisy and in the end probably Zia. Not too much French
élan
, the grey-faced man had warned. The dithering of a frightened mongrel was more like it. And Zia—where was sweet Zia? He had to know.

He told Irata that he was going out for more supplies and would be back after midnight. Irata was not to worry. The days of boredom and the nights when no light could be shown would soon come to an end. The Spaniard, however, seemed to be in good spirits and assured him that sleep was the only remedy and he intended to be content with it.

Georges set off about ten, passing round the head of grandmother's valley and approaching the Manor Farm from the north—avoiding the paddock and the garden. The ground floor was lit up. Paul appeared to be giving a dinner-party. The dining-room and the front of the house were out of sight, but he could see the kitchen window where Marlene and Muriel, Paul's two trusty women from the village, were washing up. Two guests—a man and his wife as their voices told him—left fairly early. The beam of their headlights twinkled through black hedges and outlined colourless pyramids of trees as they drove away. Half an hour later more voices at the front door indicated that the rest were leaving. Prolonged silence and lights turned out suggested that Paul was now alone except for his temporary kitchen staff.

He crept close, always out on the open grass, across which, approach to an objective, provided there was no moon, was safer than by hedge and ditch where one could see less and risked surprise. The back door opened and the two sisters left. In the momentary light the upper leaves of the shrubbery could be seen shivering though there was no wind. Someone else had been watching the house and had just slipped into cover. The first of the dew falling on the leaves had caught the starlight so that even in pitch darkness he could distinguish the course of the watcher as he resumed his position.

A detective was unlikely. Police would hardly bother. Paul's guests were sure to be well known, and Mrs Fanshawe could hardly be expected to turn up at a dinner party. Appinger then? Well, enquiries would have revealed to him that Paul Longwill had been a close friend in the distant past and was a possible ally in the present. Now that they had time to concert plans which were less hasty, it was sound common sense to detail a man to keep an eye on Longwill. Georges gave up all idea of ever visiting the house and carefully withdrew, belly to grass, until it was safe to stand up and start for home.

On his way it seemed to him odd that the close-knit village should be quite unaware of intrusions in the night. Yet what was odd? The pubs were shut and sleep was sleep. Nocturnal animals were seldom observed at all except by the naturalist on the look out for them. Few people ever saw any more of a badger than its squashed corpse on the road, or knew the hour when the vixen came and went taking one duck with her and leaving another headless.

When he returned to the ice-house he found it empty. Irata's few possessions had gone as well, proving that this was no temporary absence. Georges, looking back on their recent conversations, realised that he ought to have continued to impress on him the danger of his arrest for murder. Instead, taking pity on this Spaniard as highly-strung as himself, he had assured him that the accusation would not stand up. And Irata, torn between his two loyalties, to the Party and to the dear home now at last open to him, had very reasonably decided that any extra loyalty to the unknown prisoner—Spaniard, British secret agent or whatever he was—could be ignored.

Georges went down to the house and was surprised that Irata's motorcycle was in the larder where Paul must have left it. Presumably Irata had come down to recover the bike, but had decided in the end not to risk it. Since the number was known, it could lead to his immediate arrest whereas if he walked or took public transport he could choose time and place to arrange his own voluntary interview with the police. Of Irata himself there was no sign except a broken bottle of a dark red wine with half the contents spilt on the floor, which he had intended to take with him for the journey.

Would he give away where he had been hiding? There was no reason why he should and perhaps one could count on that much loyalty to a mysterious friend who might still be useful. All the same, sleep was out of the question. Making the least possible noise and working backwards down the slope, Georges repaired the narrow, twisting passage to the ice-house intertwining bramble and wild rose, gathering up the branches which Paul had cut and sticking their butts into the ground so that they appeared to have withered in place.

Through all of Monday, with short intervals of dozing, he waited for police to arrive at the house below. They did not come. Either Irata had kept his mouth shut or had not been caught. The long June evening was fading the wrack of grandmother's garden into gold and dapple when he saw two men approaching the house, one tall and worn to leanness, one rounded by office life. As they came nearer he recognised the latter as the grey-faced but ultimately cordial crook who had interviewed him on Saturday morning.

They sat down, one on the rusty remains of a garden roller, the other spreading out his length on the grass, and were obviously waiting for him to appear. They must have talked to either Daisy or Paul Longwill. Georges wriggled up the slope along his hidden passage and took a careful look round. Nobody else was in sight. He then came down from the head of the valley, reluctant to give away as yet the exact position of his den, and joined the two.

Grey face introduced his companion: ‘Colonel Mannering of MI(S) whatever that may be.'

‘I can give him better credentials than that, Gerald. Mr Rivac, I represent the department which Karel Kren was trying to reach.'

‘You knew him?'

‘No, nor Lukash, except as—what shall I call him—our foreign correspondent.'

‘Thank God we have met at last!'

‘That's just what Miss Fodor said.'

‘She is all right?'

‘Like yourself. All right till she isn't.'

‘Where is she?'

‘With Mrs Taylor.'

‘But Daisy's cottage may be watched.'

‘It is not watched by the police, Mr Rivac. And our other friends, if they saw her at all, will only recognise her as a Swiss friend of Mrs Taylor.'

The inscrutable Gerald asked if Irata could observe them. Georges replied that he had disappeared leaving his motorcycle in the house, and asked:

‘Can you get hold of him before he is arrested?'

‘Without the help of the police I doubt if I can get hold of him at all. You remember that I warned you. Once you are connected with Fyster-Holmes the Law must take its course.'

‘Then our Georges must take his own course back to Lille and quickly,' Mannering interrupted.

‘What good would that do? There is such a thing as extradition, Colonel. Well, we had better see what can be done with the motorbike. Does nobody ever come here, Mr Rivac?'

‘Only house-hunters sometimes. But Appinger knows it's a likely place for me.'

‘His men were here last night disguised as police,' the colonel said. ‘They got Miss Fodor but she talked herself out of it. Too long a story for now—all about flowers and Alderton Wood where she was on Saturday night.'

‘But she couldn't have been here without my knowledge. Oh, of course, of course! I was trying to get in touch with Longwill and when I came back Irata had gone. You may like to know that the Manor Farm was watched. If it wasn't police, one of Appinger's team was hoping to grab me coming in or going out.'

All three entered the dusk of the house and Georges showed them the bike pushed into the larder where Longwill had hidden it. A few muddy footprints which he had not noticed in darkness were faintly visible on the polished floor.

The colonel showed interest in the black pool of wine, dipped a finger and tasted it.

‘Still very drinkable?' Gerald asked ironically.

‘Yes, if one must. Try it!'

Gerald too dipped a finger.

‘Know the taste?' Mannering asked. ‘No, I thought you wouldn't. The police and the brutal and licentious soldiery know it quite well, but MI5 can work without it.'

‘Well, what is it?'

‘Blood and wine, Gerald, blood and wine. They had no time or nothing to wash up with. So they spilt what was left of Irata's bottle on it.'

The grey-faced man retched and spat, but got his own back.

‘It's true,' he said, ‘that police and military men are only called in when we have failed. I suppose the body has been removed.'

‘I don't see how they can have done. According to Zia, somebody disturbed them and they whipped her off. The somebody must have been Irata. She saw only one car, so they must have carried him away on foot or not at all.'

‘Poor devil! I did like him,' Georges exclaimed. ‘Why, why?'

‘Because his evidence would have been invaluable to us and to the police,' Gerald answered. ‘But he was no more use to them.'

‘Not upstairs, I think,' said the colonel who had been following the traces of mud. ‘So where, Mr. Rivac?'

‘Garden?'

‘Garden graves are too obvious. In the house?'

‘Try the kitchen.'

Irata was on the floor of the cellar. He had been stabbed from behind between the shoulders, once only but deep.

Georges wildly protested that it was madness, sheer madness, that sooner or later the body must have been found.

‘And then who did it? Mrs Fanshawe or her unknown companion who must be on the brink of being identified?'

‘It still doesn't make sense. If I'm arrested I tell all I know.'

‘Perhaps they hoped to get you too last night or didn't care what unprovable spy yarn you told so long as they laid their hands on what Kren gave you. Rippmann, Fyster-Holmes and now Irata—can you talk your way out of all three?'

‘Well then, it's up to us,' the colonel declared. ‘We've got to bury the bugger.'

‘I cannot allow it. I am responsible for the security of the United Kingdom and what I do must always be within the law.'

‘And I in my way, Gerald, am responsible for the security of Europe. If no one will protect my agent, I will.'

‘I will have nothing to do with it. You yourself suggested that the police can discover a fresh grave at a glance.'

They were singing in their throats like two angry tom cats. Georges timidly murmured that he used to hide things under the cellar bricks.

‘What sort of things?'

‘Oh well—postcards and things.'

‘A difficult age, dear Rivac. I used to hide them under the mattress until I found it was turned once a month. But we haven't a crowbar.'

‘The bricks are laid on earth. No concrete. And loose under the wall there.'

Gerald objected that the police would spot it at once and he would not permit such folly.

‘But since they know nothing at all about Rivac there's no reason why they should search his grandmother's house. I suppose you can't ride a motorbike, Gerald?'

‘During the war, Colonel, when I was a mere security corporal in what you rightly describe as the brutal and licentious soldiery, my motorbike was to me what a horse is to a cowboy.'

‘Didn't walk, eh?'

‘Never!'

‘Haven't forgotten?'

‘Of course I haven't forgotten!'

‘It wouldn't be against the laws of the United Kingdom?'

‘What wouldn't? About six of them, I should think. What the devil are you talking about?'

‘Well, if you were not even here you could not forbid what Rivac and I are thinking of. And if the bike isn't here, the police would never look for Irata.'

Gerald's stern face lit up as if he had just heard some witty and scandalous anecdote over the port.

‘By God, I've never had a chance for thirty years! Old times! Good old times! But Lord help us if a police car spots the number! Well, the bike looks as if it had some speed. Shoot round a couple of corners before they can catch me up and run for it in the dark, what?'

‘Don't go too far and leave yourself a long walk!'

‘No, Colonel. I shall do what Irata might have done—leave it in the nearest car park and return to . . .'

‘The security of the United Kingdom. And wipe your prints off everything you touch.'

‘Do they teach you that in MI(S)? You go ahead and wave to me when the road is clear!'

The dusk had deepened. Mannering went out to watch the lane while Gerald wheeled the bike as far as the gate. Georges closed down the cellar and went out to the dilapidated old toolshed where the best implements he could find were a coal shovel and a discarded bill hook which could be used as a pick for loosening the earth. The problem of a lever was more difficult and only solved by a flat iron strip above the door frame, the screws of which had rusted away. Silence at the gate went on and on. There would be bicycles and pedestrians, he guessed, on the way to and from the pub and perhaps a few lucky lovers wandering off into the scented night. At last he heard the bike start at the second kick, and after two smart changes of gear it blasted smoothly off into the distance until rising ground cut off the sound.