Those in Peril (38 page)

‘Right, sir.'

The wine was certainly no disgrace and the fish soup excellent. They ate quickly, paid and got up to go. If anyone had been watching them, Powell thought, their suspicions might have been aroused at the speed with which they had finished their meal compared with true Frenchmen. Alphonse, running after them, enquired anxiously whether it had all been to their satisfaction. As they went out of the door, two Wehrmacht sergeants came into the café, one of them pushing Powell roughly aside. The
patron
, he noticed, gave them his full attention, escorting them with a flourish to a good table. Who could blame him? The man had a living to make.

Lieutenant Smythson went off in search of Jean-Claude Vauclin and Powell walked around the town, pausing to buy some French cigarettes and a newspaper. He sat on a convenient bench and looked at the paper with some interest. It was little more than a propaganda tool for the Third Reich. All their recent triumphs were trumpeted across its pages – the siege of Tobruk, the fall of Belgrade, the British retreat in Greece. It made depressing reading. He folded it under his arm and walked on, finding himself outside the
hôtel de ville
. The conversation he had had with Duval on his return from his first mission came back to him. The mayor, Maurice Masseron, Duval had told him, had been extraordinarily helpful. He was not one of the network but, evidently, Duval had trusted him enough to confide in him completely.

On an impulse which he knew was probably foolhardy, he walked into the building and, summoning up his most convincing French accent, asked to see the mayor. His business was very urgent, he told the hard-faced woman at the reception, and private. What was his name? He gave the first French name that came into his head – Renault. The mayor was an old friend of his from past years. A
very
old friend. She stared at him, he thought, with deep scepticism and went away. For all he knew, she could be phoning the French police or even the Gestapo, but he waited, looking as unconcerned as he could. After some time she returned. The mayor would see him – only God knew why was implicit in her tone and expression.

He was shown up an impressive flight of marble stairs and into the mayoral office, the woman holding the door open for him. The man who rose from behind the desk was broad-built with a mass of thick, greying hair. He held out his hand.

‘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-known 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.'