The bargee came out of the engine room and ordered the dog back to its quarters. He held a small wooden crate containing a cloth bundle, which he put down on the table in front of them. Unfolding the cloth, he revealed a long baguette of bread, a slice of soft cheese, a bunch of grapes and a dark black cured meat sausage. The smoky smell of the sausage rose up from the box and filled their nostrils, making them at once aware they had not eaten for some time. Their host climbed back up the steps and disappeared into the wheelhouse, then returned almost immediately with a half-full bottle of red wine, which he dumped down on the table next to the box. Finally he found two glasses and a knife, which he placed alongside the food. He smiled and grunted something incomprehensible, then left them to it, going aloft to deal with other matters.
‘What did he just say?’ Grainger asked, looking quizzical.
Evangeline gave a little shrug and smiled. ‘No idea – probably something like “bon appétit”’.
‘He’s French, isn’t he? How can you not understand him?’ There was a tinge of incredulity in his voice, which somehow managed to irritate her.
‘Yes,’ she said testily, ‘but not everybody in France speaks French – or did you not know that? He could be from Marseille, or maybe he’s Catalan,’ she insisted sharply. ‘He has a strong accent.’
‘I just supposed you would understand, that’s all.’ He tried to look conciliatory but she still looked sullen.
‘Where I come from a lot of the people speak in a German dialect, especially those with a poor education.’ She held out her hands with the palms open in a gesture and said, ‘How should I be expected to know all these things? People speak differently all over this country. In Normandy they speak Normande, in Brittany they speak Breton; they are neighbours but they can hardly understand each other. You can’t expect me to know all of it – nobody does.’
She went silent on him and cut a piece off the smoked sausage and tore a chunk off the end of the baguette. He smiled cautiously, realising he had upset her. He sat there awkwardly for a moment, not quite sure of himself, but then she relented and, pouring some of the red wine into a glass, she held it out to him as if it were a peace offering.
After they had finished the food they sat and drank the rest of the wine until the bargee came back down the steps and announced in the same barely comprehensible tongue that they should avail themselves of the two bunks for the night. With a lot of gesturing and some rudimentary French he indicated that he would sleep in the wheelhouse and he would cast off at dawn.
He then went to the far end of the saloon and, lifting the lid off what had looked like a work bench, revealed a china basin with a plug in the bottom, which let the water out through a drain that emptied into the canal. ‘Robinette,’ he said with a grin, pointing to a crude tap in the form of a short pipe protruding from the bowl. There was a pump mounted beside it; he cranked the handle up and down and some water flowed into the basin. He went to a cupboard and pulled out a tin saucepan. Pumping again on the handle, he filled the saucepan with water then set it down on the top of the pot-bellied stove to heat. Again the bargee grinned broadly, indicating that this modern convenience was an object of pride. Finally he pulled open a closet door set in the bulkhead, which separated them from the barge’s cargo of wine barrels, and revealed a roughly made commode; there was no lid and a stained bucket was clearly evident lodged underneath the wooden seat. He shut the door and politely doffed the leather cap he was wearing, wishing them goodnight.
He had one foot on the first step of the companionway when he seemed to have a change of mind. He called to Evangeline and with a couple of short waves of his hand beckoned her over to him. For a few moments Grainger strained to hear what was being said but it was clear from her look that even Evangeline was having difficulty. After several attempts the conversation concluded and she came back and sat down at the table.
‘What was that about?’
Before she could answer the bargee once more came scuttling down the steps of the companionway, his wooden-soled clogs clacking loudly against the treads. He had the same broad grin on his face as he noisily banged down a long-necked bottle and three glasses onto the table. ‘Marc,’ he said with a wide grin, ‘bon digestif.’ Grainger returned the grin, having managed to understand at least those few words.
‘Very good drink,’ the bargee added, in a strangely fractured English, looking even more like Groucho as he lifted his eyebrows, pleased with his attempt to speak in a foreign tongue. He splashed a generous measure of a straw-coloured fluid into the glasses and, lifting his glass up to the height of his forehead, again lapsed into a guttural noise, which Grainger supposed to be some kind of toast. Evangeline said, ‘Santé,’ which he knew to mean good health and he repeated the same. The three glasses chinked together and Grainger took a tentative sip at the liquid.
‘Jesus, that’s fire water.’
Evangeline laughed. ‘It’s made from grape skins after they’ve been pressed for the wine. It’s very strong – you should avoid to drink too much.’
Grainger raised his eyes skyward. ‘That won’t be difficult.’
The bargee poured out another splash all round with Grainger protesting and Evangeline laughing. After a third glass Groucho was finally persuaded that it was enough; he got up and, clutching the bottle in one hand and with the glasses stuffed onto three of his fingers like oversized thimbles, he clattered back up to the wheelhouse.
‘What the hell was all that for?’ Grainger said, slightly slurring his words. ‘God, that stuff’s strong.’
Evangeline laughed. ‘He was saluting you as a comrade in arms.’
Grainger looked confused. ‘What!’
She giggled. ‘Just before he had asked me if you could be trusted; he said you looked like you might be Gestapo. It’s your clothes – you look like Gestapo,’ and she broke into a bout of chuckling. ‘I told him you were an English spy sent in by parachute to help rescue someone. You became an instant hero.’ She stopped giggling and looked at him apprehensively. ‘I hope you don’t mind.’
‘No,’ he said and burst out laughing, which set her off giggling again.
They talked for a while longer and when she looked as if she was going to fall asleep where she sat he suggested they go to their beds. He got up and looked around for his bag. ‘I think I’d like to at least wash my face and clean my teeth before I turn in.’
Evangeline watched as he stripped off his shirt and singlet, then pumped some water into the basin; it was freezing cold and he said as much. ‘Use some of the water on the stove,’ she suggested.
‘I thought I’d leave that for you.’
‘Richard, you have too much politesse for a spy. I am not sure you are strong enough for this kind of life.’ She laughed a little as she said it, but she had been watching him for days now and although he somehow seemed too gentle for this kind of operation she had noticed an underlying hard edge to the man. Without his clothes she was surprised to see how lean he was. He carried no fat and his muscles were well defined, though not powerful like those she had seen on others, and her mind went back to a picture of Kasha who had arms banded like steel. The man in front of her might be hard pressed in a contest with him, she thought. He finished his ablutions and emptied the water, pulling the plug from the basin.
‘I’m going outside for a minute,’ he said hesitantly. ‘I need to relieve myself. You could use that while I’m gone – give you some privacy,’ and he pointed towards the closet with the commode.
‘Thank you, I will,’ was all she said.
As he emerged into the wheelhouse he found Groucho half dozing, lying on a padded bench which served as a couchette, his head and shoulders propped up on a cushion and a pipe hanging from the corner of his mouth. His dog lay on the floor at his feet, its muzzle resting on outstretched paws, its eyes closed and its breathing gently subdued. They both jerked into life as if forgetting they had guests aboard. Grainger gestured that he should not disturb himself
and with a combination of hand movements and single words communicated his mission. His host smiled, indicating he should be careful as he went down the gang plank.
The night air was frosty, the sky brilliantly lit with a canopy of stars and as he looked up he found the Ursus Major and traced the line through the Plough until he picked out the North Star. The barge, he judged, was facing south-west, which would be about right for Narbonne. He walked a few yards from the canal bank, being careful not to trip on the mooring lines, then unbuttoned his trouser and let go a long arc of warm urine that steamed in the cold air. Relieved he re-buttoned the fly and was about to return to the barge when the sound of twigs snapping underfoot made him stop. He listened – he heard it again, somewhere in the shrubby undergrowth that lined the banks of the canal. Inside the barge the dog picked it up, too, and started barking. He stood motionless for a while longer but there was no more sound; whatever it was had gone.
When he came back into the wheelhouse the bargee was asleep, mouth half open and snoring loudly. The dog opened its eyes, tilting its head on one side, looking expectantly at Grainger, then sensing nothing was coming his way lay back down again and ignored him. He dropped the latch on the door and locked it with a steel bar that dropped into an iron hasp; nobody would be coming through that in a hurry. At the bottom of the companionway he stepped into the warmth of the saloon where he found Evangeline washing her face. She had stripped to the waist and with her arm held up he could see the plump pale curve of her breast and the pointed nipple, pink and firm. She turned and saw him staring but did nothing to cover up. She looked at him for a moment then said, ‘Would you mind to look the other way please – I want to wash all of my body.’
He felt the embarrassment rising at having been caught like a Peeping Tom and his face coloured up, though in the pale light of the oil lamps she didn’t notice. ‘Of course,’ he said, ‘if you wait a moment I’ll get into the bunk. Which one do you want?’
‘I think the top will be best.’
He lay down on the bottom bunk with his face to the bulkhead, granting her the privacy she had requested. Just after she had finished and climbed into the top bunk the dog started to bark again and he heard the wheelhouse door being unlocked and opened. There was a moment of silence and then the sound of the bargee calling out into the night. There was no reply and after a few more minutes he heard the dog scurry down the plank and run growling into the distance. He could feel the breath of cold air coming down the companionway from the open wheelhouse door and the thought entered his head to get up and investigate.
‘What is it?’ he heard Evangeline whisper from above, her head hanging over the side of her bunk.
‘I don’t know – I thought I heard someone out there when I was outside. I’ll go and see.’ Grainger fished around in his bag, which he had been using as a pillow; his groping hand found the hard grip of the .38 automatic tucked away in the bottom. He pulled back on the breach to arm the weapon, then carefully got out of bed. The wheelhouse was in darkness; the bargee stood in the doorway, the shotgun held at the ready as if he was expecting trouble. He looked briefly at Grainger then back out into the night. Eventually he whistled and the dog came panting back up the passerelle.
Returning to the warmth of the saloon Grainger lay down again in his bunk and pushed the gun under the bag where he could get to it quickly if needed. Evangeline hung her head over the side again. ‘What was it?’
‘I don’t know. There’s nothing to be done for the moment; we’re just passengers until we get to Narbonne.’
At eight the following morning, as the first flush of grey light washed across the horizon, they heard the groaning of the starter motor followed by a dull rumble as the barge’s slow-revving diesel engine grumbled into life.
CHAPTER 19
Betrayal
A dark maroon Renault car, bearing a number plate inscribed with the name of a garage in Lyon but a registration which clearly tied it to the 16th Arrondisement of Paris, picked its way through the outskirts of Avignon. It was three in the morning and in the suburban districts the city was sleeping. Inside the car three men and a woman strained to read the names on the poorly lit streets. The woman was sitting up front, half bent over a plan of the city that she had spread out across her lap. In the footwell a submachine gun was resting butt down, its barrel propped against her left knee. In her right hand she held a small torch, the beam of which traced out the path of their navigation. Slowly the car patched its way through the side streets and along the avenues as the woman called out the turns right and left to the driver. The two men in the back peered silently out into the dark, reading off the name plaques posted high up on the walls at each corner, calling them out to the woman who then instructed the driver on which turn to make at each junction. In their laps each cradled the same lightweight machine gun as the woman in front. The car, having negotiated yet another corner, turned into a broad avenue lined with plane trees. The houses were buildings of substance set back behind their own walls, inhabited by professionals – the bourgeoisie and the well-to-do.
‘We’re here,’ the woman said quietly.
The driver got out of the car and went to the gate of a large double-fronted house. The gate was high – two metres with barrel bars and an arched top that carried revolving spiked rings to discourage the unwanted from climbing over. The driver paused as he reached the gate, bending forward to examine the lock. He was a thin man with a weaselly face that looked pinched in the cold of the night. His dark hair was plastered down with pomade; dressed in a long camel hair coat that draped badly over his frame, he gave the appearance of an elaborately dressed scarecrow. He cast an eye over the length of the high wall enclosing the garden. Then he noticed there was a bell press mounted to one side of the gate. He stepped back a few paces until he was level with the rear of the car and spoke in a hushed voice to the two men inside.
‘OK,’ he said, ‘let’s announce our arrival.’
The men got out, shutting the doors carefully to avoid too much noise. It was the kind of neighbourhood where people could be nosey and they were in no hurry to advertise their presence to the rest of the world at large. ‘Go round the back,’ he whispered to the woman. ‘See if there is another way out.’
Inside the house Monsieur Varailles had known this moment would come and he had prepared himself for it. He had sent his wife and his son to stay with a neighbour and when the high-pitched jingling of the bell split the tranquillity of the darkened house he calmly got out of his bed and, putting on a warm woollen dressing gown, made his way down the stairs to the hallway. By the front door, sitting on a small table with delicate inlaid marquetry was one of the three telephones in the house. As he picked up the receiver and turned the dial with his index finger the insistent ring of the bell again pierced the silence. He ignored it.
‘Mathieu,’ he said, his voice steady but sombre. ‘They are here; take care of your mother.’
Again the bell rang. Taking his time, he opened the front door and peered through the darkness to where his visitors loitered, their weapons clearly displayed. Monsieur Varailles called to the figures he could see through the gaps between the bars of the gate. ‘What is it?’ he called out. ‘What do you want at this hour?’
‘Police!’ one of them shouted. ‘Open up!’
Slowly he walked down the path to the gate; there he stopped and looked at the three of them, his eye carefully passing over each face in turn, searching for some kind of familiar feature. They were strangers, he concluded; he had never seen any of them before.
‘We have a warrant to search your house,’ one of the men said, and waved a piece of paper at Varailles. ‘We believe you are harbouring a fugitive.’
‘Two, in fact – a man and a woman.’ One of the others added, jabbing the barrel of his gun menacingly at Varailles as if to punctuate the words and give force to their demands.
‘There is no one here but me,’ Varailles protested.
The othe
r man looked angry and snarled impatiently. ‘We’ll see for ourselves. Now open the gate or I’ll shoot you where you stand as a traitor to France.’
‘I need to get a key – please wait,’ Varailles said curtly, then shuffled slowly back to the house. Entering the hallway again he stopped and stood there for a moment. The bell rang again and a man’s voice called softly that they would shoot the lock out if he didn’t get out there right away with the key. He appeared again at the front door and then, walking as slowly as possible, made his way towards the gate once more.
‘Here,’ he shouted, brandishing the key, ‘I’m coming.’ He hesitated again as if waiting for something but the driver looked menacingly at him waving a pistol. Varailles opened the gate; the three unwanted visitors filed up the path into the house and once inside shut the door.
‘OK, where are they?’ the scarecrow grunted. ‘Search the house,’ he told the other two. The others scurried off. ‘OK, once more, where are they?’
Varailles shrugged. ‘There is nobody here – just me,’ and he held up his open hands to underscore his point. Without warning the scarecrow lifted the pistol he was holding and banged it down savagely on Varailles’ shoulder, hitting him hard on the collar bone. Varailles staggered as the pain of the blow seared through his chest but he managed to remain standing.
The scarecrow grinned maliciously. ‘If you think that hurt wait till we really get going – WHERE ARE THEY?!’
He pushed his face so close their noses almost touched. Varailles could smell the coarseness of the other man’s breath; it was thick and cloying with halitosis. He grabbed the lapels of the dressing gown and shook Varailles violently, and then with a shove in the chest he sent him crashing backwards to the floor. Varailles, who had all this time been measured and polite, now scrambled to his feet and made a move to grab his assailant. Varailles was not particularly tall but he was strongly built and although he was now a fonctionnaire and spent most of his time sitting at a desk, he had worked his way up as an engineer and had the muscles of that profession. The other man stepped back just enough to avoid the lunge that came at him and, lifting the pistol, brought it in line with Varailles’ head.
The Girl in the Baker's Van Page 21