Those in Peril (11 page)

He thought for a moment. ‘I have been in Toulouse.'

‘Where have you been staying?'

‘In a rented apartment – in the rue St Georges. I did so once. The landlady there would certainly lie for me, if I ask her.'

‘Are you sure? The Germans are very thorough. They check facts.'

‘She can be trusted,' he said blandly. ‘I knew her well.'

The lieutenant commander cleared his throat again. ‘Very good. Let's take a look at the chart.'

They stood looking down at the chart spread out on the table – at the intricate Brittany coastline with its endless promontories and bays and islands and coves and inlets. The Englishman said, ‘What I am proposing is this. We've run some trials and established that the
Espérance
has a cruising speed of six knots. Her departure will be timed to make maximum use of the hours of darkness. The hold will carry fish in case you are challenged and boarded. I estimate that you should be approaching Le-Guilvinec the following evening, where you will anchor in the bay for the night. At daybreak you leave. Your time of arrival off Pont-Aven must be before sundown so that you can enter harbour in company with the other fishing boats returning. You, Monsieur Duval, go ashore before any curfew is in force. Exactly how long you stay will be for you to decide – one day, perhaps two, or even more. The
Espérance
will wait as long as Lieutenant Smythson considers it's safe to do so. If suspicions are aroused, she may have to leave without you. Do you have any questions?'

‘If the boat
does
leave without me, what do you suggest I do next?'

‘That's rather up to you, as well. The
Espérance
will try to return at some later time, but it might be out of the question. In either case, there's unlikely to be an opportunity for Lieutenant Smythson to get any message to you. You wait to see if the boat does return reasonably soon.'

‘And if it doesn't?'

‘You make your way south and cross the Pyrenees into Spain. You then approach the British Embassy in Madrid and give them the information you have gathered.'

‘And I would then be returned to England?'

‘If possible you would be flown back from Gibraltar.' The lieutenant commander coughed. ‘Of course, if you have been compromised in any way – if, say, you are under suspicion or surveillance, then you would be of no further use to us.'

He smiled at the baldness of it. The cool, matter-of-fact observation. He said, ‘Lieutenant Smythson's French is completely fluent, of course, but his appearance and mannerisms are English. I wonder how well he'll pass for a Breton fisherman?'

‘Don't worry. He'll look and act the part.'

‘I've been taking lessons,' the lieutenant informed him cheerily. ‘First hand.'

‘So . . .' he stubbed out his cigarette. ‘When do we leave?'

‘The day after tomorrow. There's no moon – an important requisite. We don't want you spotted outside the four-mile limit after sunset. Lieutenant Smythson will collect you first thing in the morning for a final briefing here.' The Englishman paused. ‘You
are
quite sure you want to do this? The thing is, you see, if they arrest you you won't be able to claim any kind of prisoner-of-war status. The Germans could pretty much do what they liked with you. You understand that?'

‘Of course.' He was rather proud of himself for sounding so insouciant. So British. Perhaps it was catching. ‘And what shall I tell Madame Hillyard? How to explain my absence satisfactorily?'

‘You've been asked to go to London . . . to do some interpreting and translation for the Free French there. General de Gaulle's organization. Liaison work. You're uncertain when you'll return.'

‘Yes,' he observed drily. ‘I can see that.'

The lieutenant commander opened a drawer of his desk. ‘By the way, this is from your boat. I thought you might like to have it, to keep safe.'

He took the
tricolore
and held it in his hands – the blue, white and red banded flag so dear to his heart. He found it impossible to speak.

When he knocked on the kitchen door she answered it – this time without the flour on her cheek but with a knife in her hand. She had been peeling potatoes instead of making pastry.

‘Excuse me, madame, but I wish to inform you that I shall be absent for a while in London. I am to do some liaison work there. I regret that I am unable to say for how long this will be. Perhaps only a few days, perhaps longer. Naturally, I will pay for the time that I am away.' He took some notes from his pocket. ‘I should like to give you a payment in advance.'

She shook her head. ‘Please don't. That won't be necessary at all, Monsieur Duval. I'll keep the room for you.'

How unlike Mademoiselle Citron – in every way. ‘You are very kind.' He looked round the kitchen. ‘How is the cat?'

She pointed to a shopping basket on the floor in a corner. ‘Fast asleep in there.'

‘I can see it has made itself at home. I hope it is not a nuisance to you?'

‘Not at all. It's very well behaved. I took it to the vet yesterday. He gave me something for the mange and to get rid of the fleas.'

‘Fleas?'

‘Little insects in the fur.'

‘Ah . . .
des puces
. It had many?'

‘I'm afraid so. A lot. It's a she, by the way. About a year old, the vet thinks. I thought I'd call her Fifi, as she came from France.'

He chuckled. ‘That's a very good name. I knew a Fifi once – many years ago. I hope the cat is better-behaved.'

‘Well, she's learning English very quickly.' She smiled at him – a warm, natural smile that was altogether charming to him.

‘How clever of her. But I am sorry about all the fleas.'

‘It doesn't matter in the least.'

It would have mattered a great deal to Mademoiselle Citron, but then she would never have taken in a mangy stray in the first place. Nor would Simone. Or any other woman of his acquaintance, he realized. Not one of them. He stared at Madame Hillyard. ‘You are so good, madame. So
very
kind.' Her smile faded and her cheeks reddened as they had done before when he had touched her to wipe the flour away. She turned back to the sink and began peeling potatoes again.

‘When will you be leaving, Monsieur Duval?' Her voice was distant now and formal.

‘Tomorrow morning. Would it be possible to have an early breakfast?'

‘Of course. What time would suit you?'

‘Seven o'clock. If it's not too early.'

‘No, that's quite all right.'

The child, Esme, came into the kitchen from the outside entrance, wearing her sullen expression and dragging her sandalled feet. She glowered at him as he left.

The
Espérance
left harbour in the early afternoon, her hold full of fresh fish, gutted and packed in ice in wooden boxes, her lockers stocked with tins of French beef, biscuits and a barrel of Algerian red wine. A square of white material had been stitched over her French flag to comply with the known German regulations. It was the unknown ones that were going to be the worry, Duval thought. Germans were sticklers for rules and regulations. They loved notices and permits and rubber stamps that permitted this and forbade that and, by now, they would have had time to think up a nice long list. Failure to comply could land them instantly in trouble. His fears about Lieutenant Smythson's appearance giving them away, however, had been groundless. With his hair dyed dark brown and wearing Breton fisherman's clothes, including the heavy sabots, he was almost unrecognizable. As for himself, he should pass any casual German inspection easily enough. The people who could never be fooled by either of them would be the real Breton fishermen, and how far other Frenchmen in France could be trusted remained to be seen. Occupation by the Nazis would bring out the best in some and the worst in others. Terror was a powerful weapon and the Germans would be fools not to use it.

As well as being much larger than the
Gannet
the trawler was a good deal faster, making a steady six knots, and on this trip he could take a back seat. Lieutenant Smythson and the three Breton fishermen did nearly all the work; his turn would come later.

At first light on the following day they were several miles west of the island of Ushant and by eight o'clock they were approaching the Raz de Sein in a relatively calm sea, but well outside the four-mile fishing limit. It was then that an aircraft appeared out of nowhere and flew over them almost at masthead height. A German Dornier. They looked busy on the aft deck, pretending to be handling nets, and, out of the corners of their eyes, watched the Dornier turn to come back and make another low pass. Duval fully expected a hail of bullets to spatter the deck but instead the pilot fired a red, yellow and green rocket, presumably in warning. The
Espérance
reduced speed and headed obediently towards the nearest land. They watched the German plane fly off, apparently satisfied.

It had begun to rain and they continued south at a top speed of eight knots, vanishing into a lucky curtain of grey drizzle. As night fell, they anchored off Le-Guilvinec, opened more tins and unstoppered the barrel. The Algerian wine was rough but he had drunk a lot worse in his time. He stayed up talking to the lieutenant when the other three had taken unsteadily to their bunks, and they went over their plan of action again.

Later, lying in his bunk with the sour taste of the wine in his mouth, smoking a cigarette and contemplating what might lie ahead, he began to have second thoughts; to wonder if he had been totally mad to commit himself so readily to such a venture. He could have lived out the war in France, minding his own business and keeping out of trouble, as Simone had shrewdly recommended. The Boche would probably have left him alone. The English would have left him alone, too, if he hadn't volunteered his services. Tolerance towards refugees was one of their noblest traditions. They might not understand foreigners, or like them, but they gave them shelter. Heroics would neither have been expected of him, nor required – especially as a Frenchman. He understood well enough the cynical view that most English held of the French. There had been no need to offer himself up like some sacrificial lamb. And there was, after all, still some point to life. Work still to be done. Things to be enjoyed. Yes, he must have been totally mad.

Five

‘I'm sorry to disturb you again, Mrs Hillyard.' Uncertain that she remembered him, he added, ‘I'm Lieutenant Commander Powell.'

‘Yes, of course. You came to see Monsieur Duval. He's not here, I'm afraid.'

‘I realize that. He's in London, giving the Free French chaps a hand. Actually, he's asked me to call by to collect some papers from his room that he needs.'

She stared at him. ‘I'm sorry but I don't think I could let you in there without his permission.' She was the antithesis of most people's perception of a dragon-like landlady, and seemed absurdly young for the job, but she was standing her ground.

‘No, I quite understand. But it
is
rather urgent. And very important. A question of national security, in fact.'

She ran her fingers through her hair, frowning. He could see her weighing up his Royal Navy credentials – his rank, the uniform, the reassuring gold braid, the medal – against her quite proper protection of her lodger's privacy. In the end, the Royal Navy won – just.

‘Well . . . in that case, I suppose it would be all right.'

‘Thank you.'

He stepped into the hall. There was a savoury smell of something frying – a homely, comforting sort of smell that he hadn't experienced since his childhood when he used to sneak into the kitchen at home to chatter to Cook, who'd let him dip fingers into pudding and cake mixes and scrape out bowls. His life, since those far-off and almost forgotten days, had been spent in places where the cooking was done elsewhere, out of sight: in school and college kitchens, in galleys on ships, hidden behind swing doors in clubs and restaurants.

She was moving away from him towards another door. ‘Would you excuse me a moment? I think the onions are burning. You turn left at the top of the stairs and the room's at the end of the corridor on the right.'

He made his way upstairs. The onions were a piece of luck or else she might have shown him to the room herself and waited while he pretended to look for some imaginary papers. As a matter of fact, he had no idea what he was looking for. Anything, he supposed, that might cast doubt on Louis Duval. Anything that gave the faintest suspicion that he could not be trusted – that whatever information he brought back from France might not be accurate, might, on the contrary, be deliberately misleading. His boat, the
Gannet
, had been thoroughly searched already. These were days when nothing could be taken for granted, not with so much at stake.

The file on Louis Charles Duval was thin: no more than a couple of sheets of paper. Born in Rennes in 1887. Studied art in Paris. Married to Simone Eloise Petit in 1909. No children of the marriage. Served as an officer in the French army from 1914to 1916when he had been wounded and invalided out. There was a brief summary of the nomadic years afterwards spent painting in other countries, including England. His address in Pont-Aven was given, his wife's in Paris. No known Nazi sympathies or communist associations. One of General de Gaulle's Free French coterie in London had known him reasonably well in Paris and vouched for him in both those respects. Duval was not thought to have any interest in politics or axes to grind. He was a painter
tout court
. He drank a good deal, he womanized somewhat, he lived a bohemian style of life . . . but there was nothing surprising or reprehensible in that. A man was entitled to live as he pleased, especially a man on his own. To be honest, Powell rather envied him. Service life, he was well aware, had its constraints and limitations.