Those in Peril (31 page)

‘You understand German, mademoiselle?'

‘Oh yes, I was brought up in Alsace.'

‘And what were they saying?'

‘All sorts of things – the things that men talk of together. What a good time they had in Paris. How easy some of the French women were – they despise them for it, you know.'

‘That seems unfair.'

She shrugged. ‘Men are like that, isn't that so, monsieur? They take but they scorn.'

His aunt snorted. ‘How would you know, Jeanne? Get on with it. What else did these fools talk about?'

‘How good the French cooking is. And our wine.'

He said, ‘Did they speak of England?'

She wriggled her bony shoulders. ‘They prefer to stay in France. They say they can bomb the English without having to go where the women are as cold as the weather. And they can sink all the English ships with their undersea boats. They say that, in the end, Monsieur Churchill will have to make a deal with their Führer.'

‘The sailors you noticed – can you tell me more about them?'

‘They were from the undersea boats.'

‘How could you tell?'

‘I have learned to recognize what they wear – the special badges and clothes. Also, they are different men.'

‘In what way?'

She moved her shoulders again. ‘Fearless, I think. Superior to most of the rest.'

‘Did they talk about their boats? Where exactly they would be joining them? The names of their captains? Things like that.'

‘No, they were more careful than the others. The train was going direct to Brest, that's all I can tell you.'

He thanked her and she left the room as silently as she had entered it. It was no wonder, he thought, that she could eavesdrop unobserved. Even so, it was not without risk.

‘Tell her to be careful, Aunt Pauline. Her years will be no protection if the Germans should ever suspect her.'

‘I've already told her so. At her age, she says, what does it matter? I think she's right.
You
should be careful though, Louis. You're playing with fire. And you still have a life ahead.'

‘I hope so because I have found a woman to share it.'

‘Welcome news. Who is she?'

‘An Englishwoman.'

‘That's a great surprise. I should never have imagined you with one. The English have no passion. Is she beautiful? She must be.'

‘She's much more than that.'

‘Well, Simone was never good for you. I hope this one will be.'

‘I hope that I'm good for her.'

‘You will be, Louis. I should like to meet her – one day. When this unpleasant war is over you must bring her to visit.'

As he left, he bowed and kissed her hand in homage. He knew it would please her.

Cousin André was waiting for him, by arrangement, in a café similar to the one in Lorient. The furnishings were almost exactly the same, but the
patron
at the zinc bar was thin instead of fat, and, by some miracle, could offer a reasonable cognac. He took it over to André's table. Since they were cousins with every reason to meet there was no need for the subterfuge of Lorient, and the table was out of earshot of the other customers. This time he listened, not to an account of the comings and goings of German soldiers, sailors and airmen but of the growing number of Frenchmen who wanted somehow to resist them. André could count fifty or more he knew who were willing to risk their lives, he assured Duval, his face alight with his communist zeal.

‘They are ready to do anything –
anything
to make things difficult for these fascist pigs.'

‘Such as?'

‘Blow up bridges. Derail trains. Sabotage work in armament factories. Assassinate, if necessary.'

It was a rather different matter, Duval thought, from the stealthy gathering of information, the gradual piecing together of vital facts. He said, ‘The Germans will certainly retaliate – you realize that? They'll doubtless execute innocent French civilians to discourage such things.'

‘There's always a price for freedom.'

That was true enough; he could not deny it. But André's form of resistance, commendable though it might be, did not march comfortably with the activities of a secret network such as he was trying to establish. In fact, there was a real possibility that his people would sabotage not only bridges and trains and factories, but imperil the vital work of undercover agents. To become involved with his cousin and his friends would be a big mistake, he decided. Let them go their way and he would go his.

Before he left Rennes, he called on the legal firm who had dealt with the family affairs for many years. The lawyer he remembered had retired and his place had been taken by his son. First, he dictated a new will. A legacy, as before, to Simone to ensure her financial security; certain of his paintings to Gerard Klein at the gallery in Paris in recognition of his debt to him. The rest of the paintings he left to Barbara Hillyard of Kingswear, England, together with the residue of his estate. When the will had been typed, he signed it before a clerk and typist.

The lawyer offered a cigarette. ‘You know England well?'

‘Not well, no. Do you?'

‘I studied at Cambridge for a year. It was a very happy time for me. They are in a very bad situation at the moment, of course. One must hope that, unlike us, they don't fail.'

‘Yes, indeed.'

‘If they go under, the war is over.'

Duval looked thoughtfully at the ceiling. ‘Unfortunately, yes.'

‘One wishes one could do something.'

He lowered his gaze. ‘It's possible that you can.'

There was a subtle change in Paris. Duval sensed it as soon as he walked out of the railway station. Silent streets, silent people, the darkness of winter descending on the city like a widow's veil. And with the darkness, fear. It was there in the hurried steps, the averted faces, the hunched shoulders, and whenever the crunch of heavy hobnail boots signalled the passing of a German patrol. Ordinary life had ceased. Gone away. In its place was emptiness.

He made his way to the rue de Monceau. Madame Bertrand came out like a jack-in-the-box before he could reach the stairway to the apartment. She planted herself adroitly between him and the first step.

‘It would not be wise for you to go up, monsieur.'

He looked down into her inscrutable old face. It was not the only time that she had given him tactful advice. ‘Madame Duval is entertaining?'

She nodded. ‘A German officer. SS.'

‘I see. Thank you for the warning.'

‘High-ranking.'

‘Yes, he would be.'

‘He's not the first one.' The concierge turned her head away suddenly and spat on the ground. ‘And that's what I think of it.'

He said smoothly, ‘Tell me, how is Monsieur Bertrand these days?'

‘A little better, though he still complains.'

‘Please give him my regards.'

She called after his departing back. ‘It would be safer not to visit again, monsieur.'

Gerard Klein's wife, Celeste, and the five children were at the apartment and he embraced them all fondly, starting with Celeste and working his way down to the youngest child of six years old. They seemed much as ever, smiling and laughing and making jokes – the close, happy family that he had sometimes, secretly, envied. They made him sit down to eat with them – a Jewish meal of salted fish and shredded cabbage and potato dumplings which he pretended to like.

Afterwards Gerard took him off to the book-lined den that had been the scene of so many other amicable meetings. Duval opened his valise. ‘I've brought you three more paintings for the gallery. That was the reason for my visit.'

‘Excellent! I sold the last one at the gallery yesterday. I thought it would be the end of them, from what you said last time.'

He smiled. ‘I must help to keep you in business, my dear friend. All those mouths to feed.' They sat down to drink and talk. Almost like old times, Duval thought, but not quite.

He lit their cigarettes. ‘Simone has a German lover. A high-ranking SS officer.'

‘Don't tell me you ran into him at the apartment?'

‘Fortunately not. The concierge warned me in time.'

‘Well, you can't be too surprised. Simone was always the practical type. And what better protection could she have?' Gerard brushed some ash from his waistcoat. ‘Some of us could do with the same. You know, I'd been thinking of sending Celeste and the children down to the south – that is until I heard how the Vichy government is treating Jews. They frighten me, almost more than the Germans.'

‘How are you treated here in Paris?'

‘Like Jews are always treated, my dear Louis. There is a special police branch now for Jewish affairs. We are identified and counted like sheep; property is confiscated on flimsy excuses; if we go to the south we may not return, and naturally we are blamed for everything – but one is quite used to that. Perhaps Celeste and I should have done what you did and fled to England with the children. But it's too late now. Have you been back there since we last met?'

‘Yes.'

‘You're crazy, Louis – I told you that before. How is your mad scheme going?'

‘It's better we don't discuss it. Let's talk of other things.' He smiled. ‘For instance, tell me where in Paris one can still buy perfume.'

‘Good evening, Mademoiselle Citron.' He nodded as he passed her in the hallway.

‘You are quite recovered, monsieur?'

Her concern for his health was feigned, naturally. Perhaps she was hoping that if he stayed ill enough for long enough he would end up in hospital, in which case she could sublet his apartment to a German officer for double the rent. ‘Yes, thank you.'

‘Is that your bicycle?'

‘Yes, indeed.'

‘It looks different.'

‘It has been undergoing repairs.'

‘You wish to keep it there?'

‘Unless you have strong objections.'

‘It gets in the way, you see . . . when the hallway is being cleaned.'

‘Very well. I'll remove it.'

He carried the bicycle up to the top floor – a considerable effort – but, on the whole, he thought it was better to keep it where it would be safe, and where it was not under her inquisitive and observant nose. At four o'clock that evening – two hours before the autumn curfew time began – he left the building again and walked out of Pont-Aven, following the road that led along the river estuary to Kerdruc. At Kerdruc he hitched a lift from a farmer driving a horse and cart piled high with muddy swedes – a bulbous orange vegetable that he had only known of as cattle food, but which the farmer was now selling for humans to eat. He left the swedes and the farmer two kilometres or so from the rendezvous at Rospico to walk the rest of the way.

By the time he reached the beach it was almost dark and he settled down for several hours of cold and discomfort, huddled in the shelter of a large rock. Cigarettes helped to pass the time and he shielded the lighted tip with his hand and buried each butt deep as it was finished. Occasional nips from a flask of brandy kept up his spirits. Every so often he checked his watch with the aid of his pocket torch. At the appointed hour he went down to the water's edge to give the arranged signal with the torch. He would see no lights from the boat, even supposing it was there. He waited on the shore, straining his ears until he heard the scrape of something broaching the shingle twenty metres or so from where he was standing. He walked in the direction of the sound. As he got closer, the familiarly insouciant voice of Lieutenant Smythson called out softly in English.

‘One more for the
Skylark
, sir?'

Mrs Lamprey had cornered her in the kitchen and was recounting her memories of Ellen Terry. ‘One of the greatest actresses ever, in my humble opinion. Such a beautiful voice, such command of language. I saw her with Sir Henry Irving in
Olivia
at the Lyceum once, long ago – 1885,I think it was, if I remember correctly. They were lovers offstage, of course. I heard her do the Mercy speech from
The Merchant
many times. You're familiar with the one, Mrs Hillyard – in the Trial scene?'

Before Barbara could answer, she had launched into it.

She walked about the kitchen, waving her arms – unstoppable to the end. ‘She was John Gielgud's great-aunt, you know. Acting so often runs in the blood. Her sister, Marion, was also an actress but, like myself, she gave it all up to marry. And there were several other Terrys, as well . . . I remember that they all had terrible memories and were always drying up – even dear Ellen. I saw her as the Nurse when she was getting rather old and she could hardly remember a word. Romeo and Mercutio had to keep whispering every line in her ear. Fortunately, I never had any trouble myself. What is it for dinner tonight, Mrs Hillyard?'

‘It's chicken.'

‘
Chicken!
What a treat.'

One of the hens had grown too old to lay any more eggs and she had had to steel herself to do the deed, or rather to ask the butcher to do it. She had carried the bird down there in Fifi's carrier basket and it had squawked and flapped indignantly every step of the way. Collecting the pathetic and unrecognizable result later had been even worse and she had wept all the way back. The Rhode Island Red had been a good and faithful servant for a long time and it seemed a poor reward for it to end up in the pot and be eaten by Mrs Lamprey.