Most Secret (30 page)

The harbour opened out before them, and he paused to look around, flogging his keen, retentive memory. There were two
Raumboote
moored at the stone jetty which formed the north
arm of the harbour; there were no other warships in sight, though the anchorage was crammed with fishing vessels lying close-packed at the moorings, jostling each other. On the jetty there were two guns opposite the
Raumboote
pointing to seaward over the stone wall, with steel shields and concrete emplacements open to the harbour side. There was a searchlight post at the extreme seaward end of the jetty, put there, no doubt, to pick up vessels coming into port. There were no other guns or armament in sight.

He did not linger to look at the harbour; that was not in the part of a farmer from the country. Carrying the baby and with the young woman at his side, he turned into the Café de la République; it was nearly empty, with only a few fishermen in Sunday black discussing at the tables. Simon and Marie picked a table near the back of the room by the wall, set down and unpacked the basket that she carried, and commenced the domestic operation of changing the baby’s napkin.

From behind the bar mademoiselle, the daughter of the house, came to them for their order and to view the operation. It had begun to rain again. She said something about the weather, and Simon replied in the French of Seine-et-Oise.

She glanced at him in curiosity. “Monsieur is from the east?”

Simon nodded carelessly. “
She
”—indicating Marie—“is Breton. Myself, I worked in a factory near Paris till the English came and bombed it flat—no higher than one metre, mademoiselle, no part of it. Now I am to work upon the farm.”

The girl nodded; it was not an uncommon story. She took his order for a coffee for Marie and for a Pernod. Simon said: “Does Monsieur Bozallec come here on Sundays?”

She said: “In the afternoon. In one hour or one hour and a half. If monsieur wants to see him, he lives in the Rue de Locranon, just round the corner.”

“I have a message for him from my father-in-law,” said Simon. He took directions from her how to find the house and ordered
déjeuner
for them when it was ready.

Ten minutes later he was knocking at the door of a rickety fisherman’s stone cottage in the narrow street, having left Marie with the baby in the café. The old fisherman opened the door to him, dressed in the usual suit of Sunday black with no collar. Simon said: “Good morning, monsieur. Have you yet tied the Germans up in bundles and set fire to them?”

The old man stared at him. “It is the traveller in cement. I remember. What do you want with me?” He stared suspiciously at Simon.

Simon said: “If we may talk in your house, monsieur.” Rather unwillingly the fisherman let him in; they stood together in the tiny, littered kitchen.

Simon said: “I was a traveller in cement when I came here last time, but that is not true now. Now I come as one who has been bombed in the east, and works upon a farm out by Pont Croix. I am a wandering man, monsieur, and not quite what I seem, but I serve Brittany in my own way.”

The old man said: “What way is that?”

Simon hesitated for an instant, and then took the plunge. He said: “I carry information to the English.”

The fisherman glanced at him shrewdly. “To the English or to the Germans?”

“To the English, Monsieur Bozallec.”

There was a silence. “I will believe what you say,” the old man said at last. “But I will tell you this. If you are lying, if you serve the Gestapo, you will not escape. You come from the east; I know that by your talk. In this place we do not have Quislings. They do not live long. Remember that.”

Charles Simon said: “Those who carry information to the English sometimes do not live so long.”

There was a short silence. Bozallec asked: “What have you come here for? What is it that you want?”

Simon faced him. “I want information,” he replied. “News for the English, so that they might fight the Germans better. I have come to you because I think you are an honest man and a brave one, and one who can find out the things I want to know. You can betray me now to the Gestapo; you can have me killed. That is a matter that lies wholly in your hands.”

The fisherman said: “What is it that you want to know?”

Simon bent towards him. “There was a ship destroyed by fire,” he said, “three weeks ago.” The other nodded. “A German
Raumboot
. Did any of the Germans escape from the fire? Were any of them picked up?”

Bozallec said: “Three were picked up, all dead and burnt and floating in their life-belts in the water. One was a
Leutnant;
I think he was the captain. He once had a beard. I was out myself that night in my boat, fishing, and I saw the body. Then there was a
Seekadett
and a seaman. All were dead and floating in the water, burnt.”

“There were no living survivors?”

“None at all.”

“How do the people say the fire began?”

The old man stared at him. “It was an explosion of the fuel-tanks on board the
Raumboot
. Perhaps some idiot fired a flare into a tank, or possibly the engine went on fire.”

“Is that what the Germans think?”

The old man shrugged his shoulders. “I do not keep in company with swine like that.”

Charles Simon said: “Listen, monsieur. I have my duty to perform, the information that I have to find. I do not always understand the reason why the English want to know these things, hardly ever. But now I have to find out what the Germans think about that accident. Do they accept it as a simple accident? Or do they think that it was sabotage? Or else perhaps some English aeroplane had dropped a bomb? What do the Germans think?”

Bozallec stared at him keenly. “Did the English do it?”

Simon shrugged expressively. “I do not know. Only I am to find out what the Germans think. If you can help me, do so; if not, I will go elsewhere.

“And find yourself betrayed.” There was a silence. “How long are you here in Douarnenez?”

“Till four o’clock this afternoon only. Then I go out by the train. I will come back again if it is necessary, but that is dangerous.”

The fisherman said: “It is very short, the time. But the Lemaigne woman who cleans the offices hears much of what the German officers are saying. And also the girl in the Café Raeder …”

Simon left the cottage shortly after that and walked down to the quay. The
Raumboote
had not stirred; evidently they were in for Sunday with the fishing fleet, having their day off. They lay along the quay, bows in towards the shore, the nearest fishing-boots lay at their moorings a hundred yards or so from their beam. Yet there were fishing-boats at sea.

The rain was lighter momentarily and he could see a little way across the bay. There were several boats out there in the shallow water; they seemed to be trawling, though it was a Sunday. He strained his eyes, but could not see a
Raumboot
guarding them. He turned back to the Café de la République; this would require some explanation.

Marie was sitting where he had left her, the baby on the seat
beside her; she was sewing some little garment made of pink linen. Mindful of his part, Simon took the baby and made a fuss of it in what he hoped was a convincing manner; immediately it wetted on his knee. He sat there with it, chatting to Marie, until their
déjeuner
was ready; he ordered a carafe of red wine, which pleased the girl. They fed the baby through the meals on bits of bread sopped in milk and wine. There was nothing that he could do but wait till Bozallec arrived.

Outside it started to rain hard, and they had coffee.

At about two o’clock the old fisherman came in, wet through, and dropped down in a chair at their table after the introduction. He glanced around the room. “This is a safe place,” he said. “We can talk, but not too loud.”

Simon bent towards him. “You have information for me?”

“I have information.” The old man paused. “The Germans say that it is sabotage,” he said, “and they are still busy trying to find evidence against us. They may do so by inventing it; it is all one to them.”

“Was it sabotage, do you think?”

Bozallec shrugged his shoulders. “Not that I know of. Not by anybody here.”

“Why do they think it was?”

The fisherman said: “It is interesting, that. Both Lemaigne and the girl say the same, and it is this: The Germans say that there was a long streak of flame outwards from the
Raumboot
a long, long way. It was all distant, you understand; perhaps two kilometres. It was not easy to see clearly. But several of them saw this streak of fire right outwards from the ship.”

Simon said: “How could that be?”

“They say there was a time-bomb planted inside one of the fuel-tanks. When it went off it burst open the fuel-tank and possibly the ship as well, and burning oil flew outwards in a streak.” He paused. “It was a good idea, and well thought of if it were true.”

There was a long pause. Simon ordered Pernod for them both. Bozallec said: “That is all I could find out.”

“It is all that the English wish to know at present.”

They sat in silence for a time. Presently Simon asked: “Those vessels in the bay. I thought you did not fish on Sunday?”

The other spat on to the floor. “Some do. They trawl around the bay near here. The Germans pay double for Sunday fish in this worthless money.”

“Are
Raumboote
out there with them?”

The old man shook his head. “There are two only in the port just now and there they are. They have their Sunday off. Each of the boats trawling has a German in it, and they are not allowed to go out far. They cannot get away, if that is what you think.”

“Do they stay out at night?”

“Till eight o’clock. Sometimes all night, but not often.”

“And each boat after dark must show an orange light?”

The old man nodded casually.

Simon sat staring out of the window at the harbour for several minutes, thinking hard. Presently he turned again to Bozallec.

“I see two guns upon the jetty,” he said quietly. “The English will be interested in that. They are manned at night?”

“Assuredly. They are manned all the time.”

“Are there any other guns about the harbour?”

“No big ones like that. Those are seventy-fives. There are more of them at Beuzec and at La Chèvre. The soldiers have their tanks and guns, and little guns, of course.”

They talked about the harbour and the defences for some time. An idea was growing in Simon’s mind, the outline of a game that he must play out to the end.

He said presently: “One day the English will arrive here, and they will force a landing. It will not be this year; it may not even be next year, but one day they will come. The
Gaullistes
will be with them; when that day comes France will be French again, and free. When that happens, will the people of Douarnenez assist the landing?”

Bodallec said: “If we are told the day, the people will fight like demons, with fire and nails and teeth against the Germans.”

Simon eyed him keenly. “If the British sent you guns—small automatic rifles that they call Tommy-guns—they would be used?”

The old fisherman drew in his breath. “If the British sent us guns like that the whole country would fight. Not only the people of Douarnenez, but the people on the farms also.”

“It would be necessary to hide them till the day.”

“Assuredly.”

“I will tell the English what you say,” said Simon.

He bent towards the fisherman. “We have not very much more time, Monsieur Bozallec,” he said. “Listen carefully to what I have to tell you now, because I shall not come again. The
Raumboot
that was burnt was attacked, and burnt up,
and destroyed by the English.” The old man stared at him. “I cannot tell you how they did it, but that is true. Let the people know.”

“Some of the people believe that already, but it is what they wish to think.”

Simon said: “I will give them proof that the English did it. Very soon now another
Raumboot
will be destroyed by fire. It may be next week, it may not be for a month, or it may be to-night. When that happens you will remember what I tell you now, that the English are killing Germans on your own doorstep.”

The man’s face lit up. “I will remember that.”

Simon said: “Now there is another thing. That
Raumboot
first will be destroyed by fire, as the last one was. You will then remember me, and believe what I am telling you. And after that a message will come to you. It will tell you what you have to do to get the guns that the English will send.”

He paused and thought for a minute. “I cannot tell you how that message will arrive, or who will bring it,” he said at last. “But you will know it in this way. I am Charles Simon. The message will begin: ‘Charles Simon says …’ and then will follow what you have to do to receive the guns. That is understood?”

The old man said: “Perfectly. First another
Raumboot
will be set on fire, and then the message will arrive beginning: ‘Charles Simon says …’ We shall not fail to do our part, monsieur.”

Soon after that Simon left the Café de la République. Carrying the baby, and with Marie at his side, he walked back to the station through the rain.

*     *     *     *     *

In
Geneviève
the day passed very slowly. They had steamed out west-north-west from the Saints for about thirty miles in the darkness and the rain. By that time they were out of the direct route for Brest from any other port, unlikely to be picked up by patrol vessels. They shut down their engine then and set their big lug sail upon the mast, and stood on slowly upon the same course, towing a weighted drogue astern of them to simulate a trawl.

The dawn came, wet and windy. They were far out in the Atlantic by that time and their danger lay in German aircraft
and in German submarines. It was quite on the cards that they would be picked up by a submarine homing into Brest or setting out upon a cruise. They had to take their chance of that. The
maître
, André took the wheel ready to hail back in Breton to any submarine that accosted them. Rhodes flaked down a sail below decks beside the flame-thrower and went to sleep on that, ready for instant action; Colvin and Boden went down to the cuddy. Only the Free French Breton lads remained on deck. Colvin was taking no chances with the scrutiny that a submarine would make by periscope before approaching them.