by Ann Bridge
‘Does Monsieur know this little town, Labielle?’
‘Yes—it’s a few kilometres down the road. Ah, I think you said you had friends there—what is the address?’ Colin asked, with thoroughly synthetic helpfulness.
‘We were to meet them at an auberge’ the young man replied, embarrassedly. ‘But—Grand Dieu!—we are now three hours late.’
Colin pitied him; but he had his own job to do. ‘Was the auberge up in the town, or on the main road?’ he asked, remembering the pencilled X on the map. ‘You see the town of Labielle is up a side road.’
‘It was on la grande route.’
‘Oh good. Well when we get there we’ll go gently, and look out for it.’ He scorched on till they were nearly at the turn to Labielle; then decelerated, and drove more slowly. Less than a kilometre beyond the Labielle turning, sure enough there was a very small road-side inn—Colin scanned the broad road ahead, here fairly straight; some 200 yards further on a car was parked on the verge.
‘This looks as though it might be the place’ Colin said, pulling in to the side. ‘Go and see if your friends are still there.’ He switched off his engine; the young man sprang out, and crossed the road—as he did so Bonnecourt appeared in the doorway of the auberge.
‘Alors! What goes on?’ he asked. ‘You are very late.’
The young man began to babble out the story of the accident; Bonnecourt, saying gently— ‘Doucement, mon pauvre ami,’ led him indoors. Colin lit a cigarette and sat back in the car to wait, tired, relaxed, and well content—he now knew at least a part of what he wanted to know.
Quite soon Bonnecourt and the young Frenchman emerged from the little inn; Colin could hear Bonnecourt asking—‘And where is this gentleman who has brought you here? Ah, dans la voiture.’ He stepped across the road—but when he recognised Colin he stopped short, with a noticeable change of expression. Colin got out.
‘Hullo, Bonnecourt! One of your friends has had a rather nasty accident. Thank God I happened to be up there, and was able to help to get him down’he said, with what he hoped was sympathetic casualness.
Bonnecourt had recovered his composure very quickly.
‘You seem to have been goodness itself’ he replied. ‘But where is le blessé?’
‘Gone on to the hospital at Pau.’
‘Who took him? Fourget?’
‘No. Fourget stopped off at his house to alert the hospital. The man’s in Dick Heriot’s car.’
Bonnecourt looked very slightly vexed. ‘How did Dick Heriot come into this?’
‘By God’s mercy he was up at the house; without him we could never have got your pal down—in a blanket!’
‘You could have called in the Rescue Service’ Bonnecourt said.
‘Yes!—and alert 4 Communes, and pay for 60 men!’ Colin exclaimed. ‘Be your age, Bonnecourt!—that would have taken hours!’
Bonnecourt grinned at him. Was there a grateful complicity in the grin? ‘We put him in Dick’s car because it’s the biggest’ Colin pursued. ‘He can lie flat in that.’
‘What are his injuries? My poor young friend is rather distraught.’
‘Well he’s certainly broken a leg, and Mme. Jamieson got the impression that he may have fractured his skull as well.’
‘How could he do this?’ Bonnecourt asked, vexedly. ‘Their path was not difficult in the least.’
‘They weren’t on the path—they missed it. I went up by it, and saw them crossing further to the west. Bonnecourt, I don’t think that young man of yours is much good for this sort of job’ Colin said bluntly—he had decided on bluntness, in the circumstances. ‘He can’t even read a map properly, or he wouldn’t have missed that path.’
‘Did he show you his map?’ Bonnecourt asked, frowning.
‘Well, I asked if he had one, and he got it out. The path had been marked, too—I saw that.’
The hunter gave a discomfited laugh.
‘Monnro, you are too observant!’
‘Well, what are you going to do now?’ Colin asked—they had moved across the road and seated themselves on the low stone wall opposite the little inn. ‘The old fellow is out for some time, I imagine. Is there much point in your taking this foolish youngster down to Pau and letting the police check on him as well? From your point of view I should have thought it would be much better to take him straight home with you, and bung him back into Spain tomorrow. He’s no use, anyhow.’ For the first time in his life Colin had embarked on bluntness of speech; he found it immensely to his taste, almost intoxicating, after his years of timid caution.
The Frenchman stared at him, a long, slow stare. At last—‘You speak of his being ”no good at this job” ’ he said, ‘and ”my point of view”. May I ask, first, what you conceive the nature of his ”job” to be?’
Colin grinned—bluntness seemed to pay off. ‘I’ll give you three guesses’he said. ‘The answer is an eight-letter word. But I should like to have a talk with him before he goes back—in fact that is rather a condition.’
Bonnecourt considered.
‘I wonder how you reached this conclusion’he said at length. Colin, in the strangest way, felt power growing in him.
‘Oh nonsense! Two Frenchmen climbing up out of Spain into France, with a marked map, in this district! Only one conclusion was probable—O.A.S. activistes.’
‘And what is the alternative to your ”condition”, my friend?’
‘That I alert the police, of course. But I don’t want to, really.’
‘Why not?’ Bonnecourt asked, coldly.
‘Because you gave us such a splendid day last week—and I like you. But I must talk to this silly young man.’
‘Why? What are you?’ Bonnecourt asked, looking at him suspiciously.
‘An ordinary Englishman. And as France is our ally—tedious as your General can often be! —I don’t want to see half her gassupply disrupted by some disgruntled ex-militarists. Really, Bonnecourt, the O.A.S. are a set of emotional clowns!—let’s face it.’
The Frenchman was silent for some moments.
‘I had not realised that the ”ordinary Englishman” was so wellinformed’he said at length. ‘Very well—I accept your condition. But why did you refer to ”my” point of view?’
‘I’d heard it—well, spoken of—and here you were, waiting for these types I’d stumbled on at the very spot marked on their map. Pretty good confirmation, I thought.’
‘This spot was marked? What idiocy! Well, come to my house at any time this evening—or could you come now?’
‘No—I’ve got other things to do first. I’ll be along later. Au revoir.’ He waited, fiddling with nothing under the bonnet of his own machine till he had seen Bonnecourt collect his passenger, go down the road, turn his car, and drive up again towards Larége.
Colin wanted, in fact, to check at the hospital on the old man’s condition, and to get hold of Dick and warn him to talk as little as possible. Had he, too, seen Bonnecourt at the auberge, or recognised his car parked further on? He went first to the Heriots, and found the whole family having a late, amply Scottish tea, while Dick poured out the story of the rescue—the twins introduced him, and he was given a pleasant welcome. Presently he asked if Dick had heard how the elderly man was?
‘Oh, he broke his leg all right, but they weren’t sure if he’d fractured his skull, or merely got concussion. I waited till Fourget turned up, and then left him to it.’
‘I suppose the hospital wanted to know his name?’
‘Yes of course, but he was too far gone to give it. They found his passport on him, though—a Paris address, and oddly enough his name is Maupassant’ Dick said, grinning. ‘He made a mauvais pas all right, poor old creature.’
‘What an adventurous day you have had’ Lady Heriot said to Colin. ‘Are you sure you wouldn’t rather have some whisky than that tea?’
‘Yes please—much rather.’ Whisky was brought, and Colin drank it thankfully; while he ate scones and sandwiches—he was hungr
y, having never had a moment to eat Luzia’s picnic lunch —Lady Heriot talked gently on about the accident. ‘So many tourists come into the mountains nowadays who are completely ignorant about climbing; they attempt things that are quite beyond their powers.’ Then she asked after Julia.
‘Oh, she’s in great form. And her friend Luzia Ericeira does most of the work, and looks after her like a Nanny! She’s splendid.’
‘I do want to meet the lovely Luzia’ Lady Heriot said. ‘In fact I thought of giving a little dance for her here—do you think she would enjoy that? Of course she, and you and your cousin, would stay with us for it.’
Colin said it would be delightful, and how kind—but he spoke a little abstractedly; time was getting on, and he wanted to go to the hospital, as well as making le constat to the police. He rose, and after thanking his hostess said he must be getting back.
‘Where’s the other Frenchman, the young one?’ Lord Heriot asked, also rising. ‘Dick said you were bringing him down.’
Colin, who had displayed such unwonted vigour with Bonnecourt, was rather taken aback by this question.
‘In the end I didn’t’he said. ‘He’s staying up at Larége tonight —I told him I’d report on his friend.’ Dick Heriot gave him a glance like a Red Indian’s at this statement.
‘You’ve reported to the police, of course?’ Lord Heriot pursued. ‘Have to do that, you know, here.’
‘Yes, I know. I’m going to do it now.’ He took his leave—Dick came down to see him out. On the broad gravel sweep in front of the house, as they walked over to the car, Colin said—‘Dick, don’t talk more than you can help about all this.’
‘Where is the young one?’ Dick asked.
‘Up at Larége, as I said.’
Dick Heriot looked at him steadily.
‘I seem to smell some funny-business about all this’he said. ‘Why didn’t he come down? He said he must be with his friend! —wanted to come in my car; now he hasn’t come. Have you any idea who these types are? Luzia thought they were O.A.S. saboteurs.’
‘Luzia’s always guessing!—but if they were, it would be all the more reason for keeping mum’ Colin said, getting into his car and starting the engine. Dick put his head in at the window.
‘Why?’ he asked pertinaciously.
‘Oh, because ”careless talk” never helps anything’ Colin said impatiently.
‘I say, are you in Intelligence too? We know that Mrs. J’s husband is’ Dick said. ‘Gosh, what fun!’
‘You just keep quiet’ Colin said, and drove off.
At the hospital Colin asked for the house-surgeon—when, after some delay, this gentleman appeared, Colin explained that he had come to enquire after the man who had recently been brought in; ‘a patient of Dr. Fourget’s.’ He was led upstairs; just as they reached the ward Dr. Fourget emerged. ‘Ah, this is Monsieur Monnro, the gentleman you want to see’he said to the surgeon—‘it was he who brought him down.’
‘How is he?’ Colin asked.
‘It does not look well. But I must return to my patients—I leave you now with Dr. Poulain.’ Fourget walked off downstairs, with his firm steady tread.
Poulain pulled out a little note-book, and began to ask questions. Had Monsieur seen the actual fall? How far was it? About 35 metres. ‘Onto rocks?’ the Dr. asked. ‘Well, there were rocks among the grass—he landed below the actual rock-face.’ Colin explained what he had done on the spot, and how there had been no brancard at Larége. ‘We could have got him down more quickly if one had been available.’ Dr. Poulain made another note.
‘Will he recover?’ Colin asked.
‘I think it doubtful. And where is his companion, of whom Dr. Fourget spoke?’
‘I left him with friends at Labielle.’
‘Who are these friends?’
‘Naturally I have no idea!’ Colin said briskly—his new firmness was beginning to return. ‘They were waiting for him at an auberge, and I left him there.’
‘This is curious! Well, I think the police would like to see you—there is an agent waiting by this man’s bed, in case he should be able to reply to questions. Par ici, Monsieur’—he led Colin into the long, clean ward, bare except for the two rows of beds, and told the agent who he was.
The agent, methodically, first asked for Colin’s name and address; he gave Glentoran for the latter, and added ‘Écosse. Poulain exclaimed at this—the Scotch were a wonderful people, the medical school at Edinburgh épatant. In reply to further questions Colin gave the time of the accident, and described the place with rather studied vagueness. ‘But they were descending from the frontier?’ the policeman asked.
‘It had that appearance, but I only saw them a few seconds before ce monsieur fell.’ (Colin had a strong feeling that the more the French police were kept out of it, the more he himself would learn, especially from Bonnecourt.)
‘And you reported to the police at Larége?’ the agent pursued.
‘Voyons, Monsieur, there are no police at Larége!’ Colin said sharply. ‘And no brancard either!—hence we had to carry this unfortunate down in a couvert. This is wrong’ Colin said, firmly carrying the war into the enemy’s country; like Dr. Poulain, the agent made a note. ‘And will what I have told Monsieur l’ Agent suffice for a constat, for the moment? I see he has made notes of everything.’
The man looked doubtful—Poulain was firm with him. ‘Let it suffice for the present. You know where to find this gentleman.’
‘Écosse is a long way away!’ the agent grunted—Colin laughed. ‘Is Monsieur remaining in Larége?—and at what address?’
‘Aux bons soins de Mme. Stansted,’ Colin replied—the Stansteds were better known there than Julia. Then he asked a question himself. ‘I think you have the name and address of this gentleman’—he gestured towards the bed. ‘I should like to have them.’
‘Why?’ the policeman asked, suspiciously.
‘But to inform his relations! Since it was I who witnessed the accident, I can tell them more than anyone else.’ Rather grudgingly, and again under pressure from Dr. Poulain, the agent opened his note-book, and read out ‘Jean de Maupassant’, and an address in Paris, which Colin jotted down.
But the agent also was worrying about the second man—Colin repeated that he had left him with friends at the inn at Labielle.
‘He comes here presently?’
‘But naturally I assume so’ Colin said, untruthfully.
At last he got away from the hospital. He decided to ring up the office in London; it would be quicker, and less public, than from either Larége or Pamplona. He drove to the Hotel de France, best of hostelries, and ordered an early supper—in spite of that tea at the Heriots he felt ready for a proper meal. Potage du jour and cold chicken would be sufficient, he said; then he went and got the old hall-porter—guide, philosopher and friend to countless English-people—to put his call through to London. In the telephone-box he looked worriedly at his watch—it was pretty late; he wondered if his particular contact on this assignment, a Major Hartley, would still be there. Much better if he could speak to him—save time and explanations.
Surprisingly quickly he got his connection—the French trunk service is very efficient—and gave Hartley’s extension number; to his immense relief he heard the voice he wanted saying ‘Hullo? Who at Pau?’
‘Me; Colin.’
‘Oh. Doing any good?’
‘Not sure yet. I’ve got one name to give you—take it down.’ He gave the name of Jean de Maupassant, and the address: 15, Rue Calumet, Paris XVIe. ‘An elderly type.’
‘What’s he up to?’
‘At the moment, nothing—he’s in hospital with a broken leg and a fractured skull; they don’t seem to think he’ll recover. I happened to be close by when he fell, and got him down.’
‘Was he where one would expect?’
‘Yes, exactly there.’
‘Half a mo’ Hartley said—Colin waited. After a pause—‘Was he alone?’ the voice from London
asked, ‘or was a young man called de Lassalle with him?’
‘There was a young man with him, but I don’t know his name—an incompetent drip, if you ask me.’
‘Can you get his name?’
‘Yes.’
‘When?’
‘Probably tonight.’
‘Good. Well look, what we really want to know is, (a) who the local contact is, who gets these people across. I’m surprised this should have happened—he’s supposed to be so immensely efficient. Have you got anything on him?’
Colin, quite wrongly from the official point of view, hedged. ‘I’m working on that’he said. ‘The whole place is crawling with smugglers. But H, you could perhaps help by telling me one thing—are this pair, whose names you seem familiar with, Cs—or members of the 15th, 1st, and 19th letters of the alphabet?’
‘Oh, the latter.’
‘I see. And what’s your question B?’
‘Had they anything—well, active—on them?’
‘The one who fell can’t have, or it would have gone up with him, wouldn’t it? Anyhow his knapsack was very light.’
‘Can you check on the young one’s knapsack?—or have you?’
‘No—no chance. I’ll try.’
‘You should really do that’ Hartley said. ‘It’s quite important to know whether they bring the doings in with them, or pick them up somewhere—well, closer home. What a piece of luck your running into this pair where you did!’
‘I’ll try’ Colin repeated. ‘That all?’
‘No—one other thing. Are the bobbies of our gallant allies in on this?’
‘Only to the extent that they have a man sitting by the old boy’s bed in case he becomes able to speak—and that they found his passport, with his name and address—that’s how I got it.’
‘Funny, that’ Hartley said—‘using his own papers. Well, check on that other rucksack’—this time he purposely used the German word—‘and give me a ring.’
Colin paid the ancient porter for this expensive call, and then went and ate his supper; afterwards he drove back, through Ste. Marie, and up the wide grey road towards the pass; then up the final hairpin bends, all the while thinking hard, and rather uncomfortably. Colin was a Highlander, and sometimes had curious instincts about people which had often, in the past, proved correct; such an instinct he had, very strongly, about Bonnecourt—that somehow he had an important place in his, Colin’s, own life, as well as in relation to his job, and that it was exceedingly important to keep on good terms with him. But was this in conflict with his plain duty? It was on a sudden impulse that he had told Bonnecourt, at the little inn, to take the young man back to Larége instead of down to Pau; but by this action he had already committed himself to being less than truthful with the agent at the hospital. His later conversation with Hartley on the telephone had brought his obligations to his service back into the forefront of his mind, and he felt a certain disrelish for his coming interview with young de Lassalle.