by Ann Bridge
‘Monsieur le Professeur, I desire to undergo the operation’ she said in a firm voice.
Those few words produced an extraordinary transformation-scene in that rather bare room. All those faces, hitherto utterly blank, were suddenly wreathed in beaming smiles; there was a chorus of ‘Ah, c’est très-bien’ from the sage-femme and the nurses, while Martin rubbed his hands, saying—‘Madame has made the right choice.’ He told a nurse to telephone for the anaesthetist at once, and the Matron to prepare all in the operating theatre. Old Dr. Fourget came over and wrung Julia’s hand—‘Bravo! Madame makes une belle décision.’
Julia was greatly shocked.
‘My God, what a set of bastards they are, not to have told me themselves!’ she said to Colin indignantly in English. This time Martin didn’t protest; he wanted to make his preparations—but as he started to leave the room Colin caught him by the arm.
‘Where is the nearest hotel? I wish to remain close by.’
‘The Victoire—it is only a hundred metres further down the road; it is simple, but Monsieur will be quite comfortable there.’
‘But can I get in, at such an hour?’ By now it was after 1.15 a.m.
‘I have them telephoned to.’ The Professor spoke to a nurse. ‘And inform Monsieur of the reply. I must prepare; I wish to lose no more time’ he said to Colin, and went out.
The matron and a nurse were leading Julia away—Colin intercepted them. ‘Darling, I shall be at a pub only a hundred yards away; I’ll see you as soon as they let me.’
She kissed him. ‘Precious Colin!’
Bonnecourt profited by Colin’s interception, and went over to Julia; he took her hand, and kissed it.
‘Madame, I regret our hideous loi—I am ashamed of it!’ He was full of some emotion, which made him less articulate then Frenchmen normally are. ‘Madame’s great courage makes me feel proud—as the English are apt to do.’
Julia was surprised, and rather embarrassed; it was not the ideal moment for dealing with any emotion. But even then she realised that something—she herself, or the English ‘thing’—had hit the hunter for six. She took her usual way out of any crisis, lightly and graciously.
‘Monsieur Bonnecourt, I can’t thank you enough. You have been infinitely good to me.’
‘Madame, I would do the same a thousand times over.’ The little head sage-femme was beginning to tug at Julia’s arm, but Bonnecourt persisted, giving the nurse a gentle shove. ‘Un petit moment!’ ‘I hope Madame will have a son, with some of Madame’s great qualities’ he said nervously, and again kissed Julia’s hand.
Julia had wanted to thank Fourget too; but the old Doctor, after the belle décision had been taken, had gone off—he did not care for such late hours. So the matron succeeded in hustling her patient away to go through all the tedious procedures before an abdominal operation: the shaving, the washing, the swabbing with iodine, the enema; the pointless enquiry—in Julia’s case—about false teeth, which must be removed before an anaesthetic. Colin and Bonnecourt waited while the nurse telephoned to the Victoire—Colin explained his delay, Bonnecourt related how he had, so luckily, taken a gigot d’isard to Mme. Jimmison, and found that she was in labour. They could hear the nurse, outside in the hall, desperately urging the Exchange to ring the hotel again: ‘But let them arouse themselves! It is urgent.’ Colin looked out through the door—it had occurred to him that he ought to put a call through to the Office and make them cable to Philip Jamieson and let him know about Julia; but he would have preferred to do this rather less publicly—nurses were running to and fro, and even as he watched a small man, followed by another carrying a bag, came in; the anaesthetist and his assistant.
‘I want to ring London’ he said to Bonnecourt; ‘but not from here. Where’s a good place?’
Bonnecourt grinned broadly.
‘Why not the Heriots?’
‘But they’re having this dance tonight’ Colin objected.
‘Raison de plus! We might get some supper, and even champagne’ Bonnecourt said. ‘Anyhow there you can be sure of privacy.’
‘Yes—yes, I think that’s a good notion’ Colin said. At that moment the nurse returned to say that the little hotel had reserved a room for Monsieur, and when would Monsieur be arriving?
‘Oh, when I can!’ Colin exclaimed impatiently. ‘Say in about half-an-hour, or three-quarters.’
‘Monsieur remains here? The operation will take more than une demi-heure’ the nurse said, rather officiously.
‘No—I go to the house of le Lord Heriot’ Colin said. ‘You can ring me there if I am wanted. Come on’ he said to Bonnecourt. ‘Can you show me the way?’
‘Of course’ Bonnecourt replied. They drove off, Bonnecourt leading.
Chapter 7
The streets of Pau between one-thirty and two in the morning are empty and silent, but outside the Heriot mansion there was a glare of light from the first-floor windows, and the sound of music and voices; numbers of cars were drawn up along the drive and on the broad gravel sweep—Colin looked round for a place for his own. Bonnecourt however pulled up at the front door, and got out.
‘Where is Pierre?’ he asked of several chauffeurs who were hanging about, smoking.
‘Chez-lui—he entertains us, a few at a time’ one of the men replied, grinning.
‘Fetch him!’ Bonnecourt said, curtly—he turned to Colin, who had parked his car. ‘Just wait a second—I shall put my car away’ he said in English, and drove off towards the garage, converted from the former ample coachhouses. Pierre, the old chauffeur, met him; he knew the hunter well, and readily unlocked the door of an empty garage, and re-locked it after Bonnecourt had driven his car in. ‘Monsieur remains for the night?’
‘Probably. Keep the key, Pierre.’
‘Monsieur has no luggage?’ the old man asked, looking doubtfully at Bonnecourt’s rather worn climbing-suit and dusty mountaineering boots.
‘No—I do not dance! Merci, Pierre.’
In fact neither Colin nor Bonnecourt were in the least dressed for a ball; both were travel-stained, dusty, and sweaty, and the hired butler, laid on for the evening, looked at them with hostility when he opened the door of the flat.
‘Milady has guests’ he said, repressively. Colin took over.
‘First I wish to speak with the Comtesse d’ Ericeira, who is staying in the house—but also with Milady, if she is free.’ He stepped into the hall past the man, followed by Bonnecourt—‘My name is Monnro’ he said firmly.
As always on such occasions the regular servants were about, including old Jeanne, the housemaid—she overheard Colin’s request for Luzia, whispered to the butler, and slipped away; in a moment the Portuguese girl appeared, ravishing in her new dress.
‘Alors! What goes on?’ she asked. ‘Colin, you look very dirty!’
‘I am—and starving too! You know Bonnecourt?’ The hunter bowed. ‘Listen, Luzia—Julia’s baby has come prematurely; Bonnecourt brought her down tonight to the clinic here—probably saved her life.’
‘But why were you not there? You said you would be.’
‘I was held up—never mind about that,’ Colin said impatiently.
‘The baby is born? Is it a boy or a girl?’
‘It isn’t born yet—she’s having a Caesarian at this moment.’
‘What is this, Caesarian?’ Colin explained.
‘Ai Jézush! Luzia exclaimed distressfully. ‘Why did I leave her? Oh, what can I do?’
‘Get us each a whisky, and some supper, if there’s any going. And take me somewhere where I can telephone—I’ve got to ring up London.’
At that moment the music stopped, and many of the dancers came out into the hall, Lady Heriot among them; she caught sight of her two unexpected guests, looking so strange among the ball-dresses and white ties, and went over to greet them. Luzia spoke hurriedly.
‘Julia is being operated on for a baby; it comes too soon’ she said. ‘And they want whisky, and Colin—Monsieur Monnro—desires to telepho
ne.’
Lady Heriot took everything in turn, calmly. ‘Is Mrs. Jamieson at Professor Martin’s clinic? Ah, well then she’ll be all right—he’s wonderful. Mr. Monro, you’d better come and telephone from my bedroom—there are people everywhere else!’ She led him into a room where the bed and all the furniture were covered with bright evening wraps; she pushed some of these aside from the head of the bed. ‘There’s the telephone; I’ll get Jeanne to bring you some whisky. I’m afraid that butler-man isn’t much good—these people laid on by the day never are. The boys will see to Bonnecourt. Don’t worry about your cousin—though it’s terribly tiresome for her, and anxious for you. Where’s her husband?’
‘I don’t know, but the Office will; I want them to cable to him. Thank you very much, Lady Heriot.’
Colin put through his call to the Office, and noticed with relief that there was an ashtray with a butt in it on the bed-table; he lit a cigarette himself—clearly Her Ladyship didn’t mind smoke in her bedroom, and he wanted one badly. When the number answered—‘The Duty Officer, please. A call from France’ he said. When the night Duty Officer spoke the young man gave his name, and then started to dictate ‘an urgent cable’ to be sent to Colonel Jamieson.
‘But he’s back’ the Duty Officer said.
‘Back where?’
‘Here in London—at his house, I imagine. He got home this morning.’
‘Oh, good. That will save time. Well ring him up at once and give him a message, will you? Got a pencil?’
‘Now? It’s after two’ the Duty Officer protested.
‘Yes, now—his wife’s ill.’ Colin dictated the gist of the cable that he had composed in his head as he drove to the Heriots, and gave the address and telephone number of the clinic.
‘And where will you be, Sir?’
‘Either at the Clinic, or the Hotel Victoire—I don’t know the number, but it’s on the Route de Toulouse too, close by. Look it out and tell the Colonel.’ (Colin knew that the Office had telephone directories for every town in Europe.) He made the Duty Officer repeat the message and the two addresses over to him, and rang off—then he dialled the Exchange again, and told them to ring back and give the price of the call. At this point old Jeanne came in bearing a small tray with a bottle of whisky, a syphon, and a tumbler; thankfully Colin poured out a drink for himself, and swallowed two or three mouthfuls—they did him good, and glass in hand he went out into the hall.
There he encountered a fresh scene of excitement. Three uniformed agents de police were interviewing Bonnecourt, while the guests looked on in fascinated consternation. The sergeant on the motor-cycle, primed by Julia’s helpful neighbour up at Larége, had reported on his return to Police Headquarters in Pau that Madame had been taken to a clinique d’accouchement by Bonnecourt himself; the well-informed Gendarmerie forthwith sent a car with three officers to Martin’s establishment. (It is in fact the practice of the Sureté to send rather dumb men in uniform to conduct their preliminary enquiries; they prefer to keep themselves in the background.) The police car missed Colin and Bonnecourt at the clinic by a matter of minutes; but an excited nurse, who had overheard Colin talking to Bonnecourt, said that the Monsieur Anglais and his friend had driven off to the house of le Lord Heriot—and thither the police followed them.
In fact after his wife had told him of the visit of the Sureté to his house, Bonnecourt realised perfectly well that to go down to Pau was to put his head into the lion’s mouth; but when he found Julia so ill, and heard Fourget’s report on her state, he never hesitated—he was not a person who did hesitate. He took the precaution of making old Pierre, the chauffeur, lock up his car, but after that he trusted to luck. However, it looked as though his luck was not going to hold; when Colin came out of Lady Heriot’s bedroom the three policemen were saying firmly that they wished to take ce Monsieur to the Commissariat for interrogation; at once.
Before Colin could think of any useful intervention Luzia, glittering in her white dress and pearls, with diamond stars in her dark hair, stepped forward and put in her oar. Why had ces Messieurs of the Sureté called on her friend three days before at Larége, and troubled her? Doubtless this was why Madame had now suffered a fausse couche, and was even at this moment undergoing an operation. Old Lord Heriot, emerging from his dressing-room, where he had been restoring himself with a furtive whisky, overheard this, and first questioned Luzia, in English; the girl gave him angry details of the police visit and Julia’s distress—‘and now Colin—Monsieur Monnro—tells me that she is being operated on to deliver the child.’
The old peer, whose family had lived in Pau for three generations, and done much to build up the little town’s prosperity as an English tourist resort, knew exactly where he stood with the local authorities; moreover he had liked Julia when she stayed with them, and was shocked by what had occurred. He spoke sharply to the agents. What was all this? It seemed that innocent British citizens had been frightened, worried, made ill—and now they, the police, come to his own house, and disturb his party. ‘C’est peu agréable!’ the old man said. ‘Surely Méssieurs know who I am?’ He suggested, brusquely, that the police should come into his study and explain this extraordinary intrusion; sheepishly, the police agreed, distinctly embarrassed. They were even more embarrassed on entering Lord Heriot’s study, which was full of rather loverly couples sitting-out; Lord Heriot coolly told the young men and women to clear off—‘I’m busy. Carry on on the stairs, if you must.’ Startled by the sight of the police the young people went, eager to find out what was going on.
The music had begun again, but not everyone went into the big drawing-room to dance; many stayed in the hall, discussing these exciting goings-on in lowered voices, and looking curiously at Colin and Bonnecourt. Dick didn’t like any of this—he took the hunter by the arm, down in the lift, and out by the back door; thence he led him across the garden into the darkness of the trees, beyond the blaze from the lighted windows.
‘Where do we go?’ Bonnecourt asked.
‘Well somewhere out of reach of the bloody agents, for the moment!’ Dick replied. Luzia had already told him about the Sureté’s men calling on Julia, and their enquiries about de Lassalle; he fully realised in what danger Bonnecourt stood—he had had a very fair idea, for a long time, of his friend’s activities, besides smuggling and hunting isard. ‘We’ve got a very very old, stupid gardener, who’s been no use for years; tonight he may be!—I’m going to park you in his cottage while we think about the next move. I don’t think you’d better go back to Larége just now—do you?’
‘Definitely not. Thank you, Dick.’
Dick Heriot had some trouble in arousing the ancient gardener, who was rather deaf as well as stupid—but at last he opened the door of his cottage, and blinked sleepily at them. ‘Ah, Monsieur—comment ça va?’
‘This gentleman stays here tonight’ Dick said. ‘I know you have a second bed, where your daughter slept till she married—how is she, by the way?’
‘A third child, Monsieur, last week—a boy!’
‘Oh, marvellous! Well now, Lucien, bring the matelas off the other bed in here, and put it on the floor by the fire, so that Monsieur can sleep in the warmth.’ He turned to Bonnecourt, while the old man shuffled off—‘Sorry you never had any supper, but I thought I’d better get you out of the way while His Lordship was keeping the police occupied. Smart, isn’t he?’
‘You are all “smart”—and kind also’ Bonnecourt said. When the old man returned, dragging a mattress and some blankets, Dick shook him by the shoulder and addressed him sternly. ‘You say nothing to anyone that this gentleman is with you—this is understood?’
‘It is understood, Monsieur.’
‘You stay put till I come’ Dick said to Bonnecourt, and returned to the house. This was counter-espionage and no mistake, he thought gleefully, as he left the darkling trees and came into the lighted space below the windows; the police-sergeant was still standing near the front door. Just as well he’d
taken Bonnecourt out the other way. He went up in the lift, found Nick, and told him what he had done.
‘Good enough’ Nick said. ‘His Lordship must soon have finished with those types. Clever old thing, isn’t he?’
At that moment the door of the study opened, and Lord Heriot and the three policemen came out into the hall. After listening to their excuses, and their reasons for regarding Bonnecourt as involved in the escape of an O.A.S. saboteur, the old gentleman had given them a long lecture on the wonderful work that M. Bonnecourt had done in helping members of the ‘Royal Air Force’ to escape into Spain during the last war—‘After all, we and the English are allies, n’est-ce pas?’ The agents agreed politely, but remained firm: their orders were to take ce Monsieur back to the Commissariat for interrogation.
‘Oh very well—though I dislike this behaviour in my house extremely’ Lord Heriot said.
But where was Bonnecourt? No sign of him in the hall, or the room where the dancing was going on, or at the buffet in the dining-room. Rather apologetically, the police asked Lord Heriot’s permission to question the servants—the butler-for-the-night, pointing to Nick, said that he thought he had seen ce jeune Milord go out with the other gentleman ‘not dressed for a ball’—glowering at Colin as he spoke. Nick protested that he had never left Luzia’s side—which he had not; and as the twins were indistinguishable, and Luzia supported Nick’s statement, the wretched agents were flummoxed. They said, uncomfortably, that they ought to search the flat—led, stiffly, by Lord Heriot they walked through the various bedrooms, but there was no opening of cupboard doors; and in the servants’ quarters the regular staff, headed by old Jeanne, all averred that they had seen nothing, and muttered ‘Mais par example!’—looking with detestation at the intruders.
While this performance was going on Luzia murmured to Dick that she wanted to go to the clinic, and hear how Julia was; Colin said he would go too—he had snatched a hasty supper at the buffet while Lord Heriot was interviewing the police in his study, and Dick was hiding Bonnecourt in old Lucien’s cottage. ‘But I’d better wait to see these infernal police’ he said, ‘and tell them where I am.’ At that moment Lord Heriot and the three agents re-appeared, and he told his host where he was going.