Those in Peril (39 page)

‘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.

‘Monsieur Masseron, it's very urgent that we get back to England as soon as possible.'

‘Of course . . . I understand.'

‘I said before that we had thought of going south and over the border to Spain, but I realize now that it would take far too long. We must find a quicker way.'

‘All very well, my friend. But how do you suggest? By plane would be the fastest but that's impossible.'

‘By boat. From here. Could you arrange it? A fishing boat that we could take to England.'

‘My God! I can't work miracles. The fishing boats belong to people; they make their living from them. And then there would be all the papers and permits necessary. The Germans are very strict now. They make searches all the time.'

Powell said carefully, ‘About your son . . . We'd take him with us, of course. Look after him in England, until the end of the war. Just as you wished. As a matter of fact, my sister has a son very near his age. I'm sure she'd help.'

There was a pause. ‘It would take time to arrange.'

‘How long?'

‘Several days. A week perhaps. Even if I can find a boat, there would be no fuel. It's too scarce. You would have to sail. And how could you do that? Impossible.'

Smythson was grinning all over his face. ‘We're in the Royal Navy, sir. We know how to sail.'

There was a single bed in the attic – a narrow, iron affair obviously intended for a maidservant. Madame Masseron had grudgingly provided some threadbare blankets and two thin pillows which she threw at Smythson who caught them deftly. Earlier, however, she had provided a memorable supper of onion soup, crabs stuffed with herbs, Normandy cheese, apple crêpes. Masseron had produced several bottles of cold white wine, followed by one of Armagnac. The mayoral household was clearly not suffering too badly from the shortages.

Powell had hauled Smythson, who was in a state of collapse, up the stairs and onto the iron bed and made himself as comfortable as possible on the floor with one of the pillows and a blanket. Duval's newspaper, in its rolled-up state, was tucked under his arm like a child's favourite bedtime toy. A look at one of the tracings concealed between the pages had instantly told him why the Frenchman had been so keen to return to England. He had shown Smythson but decided not to take Masseron into his confidence. The less he knew, the better. And it still remained to be seen whether he would be able to arrange a boat. The papers, it seemed, were not a problem, but a boat was another matter. It would have to be a boat large enough and seaworthy enough to make the journey safely.

It was all very well for them to choose to risk their lives if they wanted to, the mayor had told them over the cognac, but he had to consider the life of his only son. The voyage would be very dangerous – not only because of the Germans with their patrols and inspections, their planes, their E-boats, not to mention their U-boats – but also because the coast of Brittany was treacherous even for the most experienced local sailors. The seas rounding the Pointe du Raz were a veritable cauldron, did they realize that? With an engine it was bad enough, but under sail they would be at the mercy of wind and tide.

Powell had reassured him. He was familiar with the coastline and well aware of the dangers. So was the lieutenant. They would keep well away from the Pointe du Raz, steering a westerly course that would take them clear of it and of the Ile de Sein and the islands off Brest. In which case, Masseron had pointed out, they would be outside the fishing limit and a target for any Germans who spotted them. Either way, it would be very dangerous. The more the mayor thought of it, the less he liked the whole idea. Far better if they reverted to their original plan to get out through Spain.

And then the boy, Luc, had come back, breezing cheerily into the room. He was tall for his age, with his father's thick curly hair and his big build. It was long after curfew time and Masseron had been angry. Where had he been? What had he been up to this time? The boy had shrugged. He and some friends had met and hung around. Doing what? Nothing much. Just a trick or two to annoy the Boche. A little sugar in a fuel tank; a truck tyre let down; a few rude words written on a poster. The mayor had turned to Powell despairingly.

‘You see how it is? One day the Germans will lose their patience. Or he'll do something really stupid.'

He had said gravely, ‘Then the sooner we leave, the better.'

Luc, it turned out, was all in favour. The little tricks played on the Boche were not enough to satisfy him. What he really wanted to do was join the Free French navy and fight them properly, like a man. He was already an excellent sailor, he told Powell proudly. He had sailed his own dinghy since he was seven and been out many times with the fishing boats. He would be happy to crew for monsieur on the voyage to England.

And so the matter was settled. The necessary papers and permits would be obtained as fast as possible. And, somehow, a boat would be found.

He lay on a truckle bed in the corner of the cell, smoking his last cigarette. At least, he assumed that it would be his last since he had none left and at daylight he was to be taken out into the prison yard and that would be the end of it. So he had been informed. He was not afraid, but he had regrets – the chief one being that now he would never know the great happiness of a life with Barbara. After all, it was not to be. She would find someone else in time, of course – or someone else would find her. That was only natural, and he wished it for her. But he was deeply sad at his own loss.

Another regret was that he had not been able to get the tracings back to England. He had been careless again, just as he'd been with the restaurant bill. He had ignored the threat of Mademoiselle Citron. He should have shut his eyes and slept with her, and he might not be where he was now. And he should have hidden the suitcase and transmitter in the boiler and not taken them up to the studio – except that to have done so could have endangered Alphonse. The old newspaper would never be noticed. The tracings would stay in their hiding place until the boiler was mended and they were burned. Nobody but he knew they were there. He had failed.

Even so, he had achieved something for France. His little network was still in place, still unknown to the Gestapo but known to the people in England. It could be used and it could spread across northern France. And other similar networks would be set up – he had no doubt about that. Thousands of pairs of eyes watching the Germans. French resistance would surely grow and grow as time went by. Every town and village would have its eyes, observing and informing. The Boche would not have it all their own way.

The cigarette was almost finished. Another one would have been good. A drink, too. A glass of fine cognac. Two glasses, even. If the good Major Winter could have visited, he would have certainly brought him some. In England, in similar circumstances, he would probably have been offered a cup of tea. He smiled at the thought. And later, they would have asked him so politely if he'd
mind
stepping outside to the prison yard. The cigarette was burning his fingers now and he took another final, long, slow drag, letting the tobacco smoke reach deep into his lungs before he leaned over and stubbed it out on the stone floor.

They had taken away his watch and so he was not sure of the time, but there was a faint and perceptible change of light at the cell window above him and he knew that dawn could not be far away. He lay, watching the light increasing little by little. A while longer, and he heard heavy footsteps approaching and the harsh scrape of the door bolts being drawn back.