Emergency in the Pyrenees

by Ann Bridge

  ‘Yes, of course. I do hope everything will be all right’ Lord Heriot said. ‘Oh, by the way, you had a call to London, didn’t you? The inter called up to say that it cost eleven new francs.’

  ‘Oh yes—sorry, I didn’t hear the ring. I told them to report the call’ Colin said. As he handed over the money Nick uttered a dismal protest—‘Really, your Lordship!’ Colin, amused, thought how Scotch Lord Heriot still was; but then the French were just the same about money; he wouldn’t have lost the habit out here.

  ‘Oh well, debts are debts’ Lord Heriot said, pocketing Colin’s notes. ‘Thanks, Monro.’

  Luzia appeared, a white scarf thrown over her shoulders above her white dress.

  ‘Dear Lord Heriot, will you make my excuses to Lady Heriot? I leave your lovely party for a very short time—I do want to go to the clinic and hear how Julia is.’

  ‘Oh yes. Is Monro taking you? If not I’d better telephone to the garage for Pierre.’

  ‘I’m taking her’ Dick said. ‘We shan’t be long. Come on, Luzia.’

  Colin need not have worried about seeing the police. The three agents, who had gone down in the lift after their fruitless search of the flat for Bonnecourt, were outside the front door questioning the waiting chauffeurs—thanks to Dick’s prudence in using the servants’ entrance on his way to the cottage, all were able to vow that they had seen no one except le jeune Milord, strolling in the garden and returning to the house. Thwarted again, the most senior policeman installed a subordinate in Colin’s car before driving back to the Commissariat; Dick and Luzia were allowed to go alone, and Colin, still unsure of these suburban byways of Pau, followed them.

  It was well after 2.30 a.m. when they arrived at the clinic, where Luzia in her glittering dress, her head starry with diamonds, created a fresh sensation among the nurses on this night of sensations—the emergency operation on the beautiful English lady, the visit of the police! The Professor had finished operating, and was on his way to bed, but courteously came down to report. Madame was still under the anaesthetic, but perfectly well; so was the baby—a boy, very small, only two-and-a-half kilograms—but ‘perfect’, and quite healthy. Luzia cajoled Martin—who like the nurses was struck by such a dazzling apparition—into letting her take a peep at Julia’s baby; the minute creature was swathed all over in cotton-wool, with hot-water bottles round it; its head, the only part visible, was bright red. ‘Why is it red?’ the girl asked. ‘Will it remain so? It is very ugly!’ The specialist laughed.

  ‘New-born infants are often red—it will not last. But it is a mercy that ce Monsieur brought Madame to me when he did; she was in an exceedingly grave condition. Another two hours—and the good God alone knows what might have happened!’

  Colin, standing with Dick Heriot in the doorway of the babies’ crêche, overhead this, and was smitten with compunction. He had promised both Julia and Luzia to be back at Larége on a given day; but he wasn’t back, and hadn’t even telegraphed—without Bonnecourt’s blessed intervention by now Julia, and her child, might both be dead. When Luzia turned and looked at him with an accusing stare he went out of the room.

  Dick followed him.

  ‘Where is Bonnecourt?’ Colin asked in the passage, in a low voice. ‘We must get him away—he’s saved Julia’s life, besides everything else.’

  ‘I stowed him in a place in the garden till we could fix something.’

  ‘Well get him away at once—out of this country. I can’t help—I’ve got this bloody agent tied to me, like a tin can to a dog’s tail! But I expect B. knows where to contact our people in Pamplona.’

  ‘Why should he know that?’ Dick asked.

  ‘Oh, he was on our pay-roll during the last War,’ Colin said, recklessly.

  ‘No! Goodness, that’s funny!’ Dick exclaimed, laughing. ‘All right—we’ll see to him. You’d better get to bed, Monro; sleep well with your police chum!’ He turned as Luzia came out. ‘Come on, Mademoiselle la Comtesse—“On with the dance”.’

  ‘You are rather silly, Dick,’ Luzia pronounced, as on the drive she crammed her flowing skirts into the car. ‘I am sorry to have left your Mother’s ball, but do hurry. I think something should be done immediately about M. Bonnecourt’ she added as they drove off. ‘Where is he, actually? I saw you take him away.’

  ‘I’ve hidden him.’

  ‘Well, he should be got across the frontier at once. If the Sureté are anything like our Special Police, they will not rest until they find him, now that they have seen him. And they only saw him because he brought Julia down. Will you act, Dick?’

  ‘Yes, I’ll act’ Dick promised. ‘It’s all poor Monro’s fault, letting everyone down by failing to turn up on time. But don’t be sour with me, sweet.’ He put a hand on hers.

  ‘Drive! Fast!’ Luzia said, removing her hand. ‘At this moment only one thing is important.’

  * * *

  In fact Dick had no need to act—Nick had already done so. His Father had described him to Julia as a pessimist—and one thing pessimists do is to foresee difficulties, and also, in some cases, arrange to avoid them. After his twin had driven Luzia off to the clinic Nick reflected on all he had just heard. If the Sureté had been up at Larége harrying Mrs. Jamieson things must be pretty serious; they certainly wouldn’t be satisfied with the rather perfunctory search of the flat carried out under his Father’s eye—they would come back and go over the whole place with a small-tooth comb. He must get Bonnecourt away immediately. Money—B. might need that. He himself had almost none; he went to his Mother’s room and raided her familiar, idiotic hiding-place, under the handkerchiefs in her dressing-table drawer—yes, nearly 5000 francs! Nick pocketed this, and went out, also by the back door, to the garage, where he told the chauffeur to put on his uniform and get out the family Humber, familiar to the police for miles around. ‘Take it out by the garage entrance, and wait outside in the road.’

  ‘At this hour of the morning, Monsieur?’ Pierre protested—he was enjoying his role of host to the local chauffeurs.

  ‘Yes. Ne discute pas, Pierre! Was-y-de-suite!’

  While the old man, grumbling, went off to change Nick took a roundabout route through the gardens to Lucien’s cottage; on his way he looked through the trees towards the front of the house. Yes; sure enough there was a policeman at the door. He had less difficulty than his twin over getting in—at his first knock a voice, Bonnecourt’s, said ‘Qui est là?’

  ‘Moi—Nick. Open quickly.’

  The hunter had been sleeping on the mattress in front of the fire; he let Nick in immediately. ‘What happens?’ he asked.

  ‘I’ll tell you outside—come along. Don’t wake the old boy.’

  Softly they went out, and closed the door—a mercy Lucien was so deaf, Nick thought. As they walked through the shrubberies—‘I think you’d better clear off now, before they start setting up road-blocks and all that’ Nick said. ‘Get into Spain, I should.’

  ‘I agree—“like Hell” as I think you say. But—perdition!—I have practically no money with me; I came here unexpectedly. I’ve brought over 4000 francs—will that do you for the moment?’

  ‘Oh, amply. Merci, mon cher Nick.’

  ‘Have you contacts in Spain?’

  ‘Indeed yes.’ But as he stowed away Lady Heriot’s notes in an inner pocket he stood still and said—‘There is my wife.’

  ‘We’ll see about her. Send us an address in Spain where we can contact you.’

  ‘Monnro will know this.’

  ‘Oh will he? How odd! Well never mind,’ Nick said, walking on—then he stopped again, among the dark laurels. ‘Tell me where you want to cross from. I’m coming with you to wherever you want to be dropped.’

  ‘You drive?’

  ‘No—I’m taking you in my Mother’s car, with the chauffeur. Better security, I thought—all the police know old Pierre by sight.’

  ‘Quelle astuce! Merci, mon cher.’

  ‘Well where do we go?’ Nick asked,
walking on.

  ‘Tardets’ Bonnecourt replied instantly. ‘I was born there.’

  ‘Good enough. I suppose you’ll cross by that path where you met the old Smiths, and retrieved their Thermos?’

  ‘By that—or by no path! I shall get some more sleep in the house of friends, and learn how the situation is before I cross; the frontier patrols may not have been alerted so far to the west. This is very good of you, Nick.’

  They went out through the big garage gate; no police there yet, Nick noted thankfully—in fact with so many cars and chauffeurs about it could not have been a better night for evading the police unnoticed. The Humber was waiting in the small road outside, far away from the main entrance—‘Tardets’ Nick said to Pierre as they got in.

  ‘Tardets? At such an hour?’ the old man grumbled, nevertheless starting his engine.

  ‘Yes, Tardets!’ Nick said.

  While they were still in the small quiet roads of the suburbs Nick suggested in English to Bonnecourt that he should lie on the floor of the car, ‘just in case’—Lady Heriot’s tartan rug was as usual folded up on the back seat, and the young man spread it over his passenger. This also proved to have been a wise precaution; as they drove through the main streets of Pau, twice police, waving torches, held them up—but recognising the venerable car, Pierre’s familiar face, and Nick’s grinning countenance, the gendarmes waved them on.

  ‘I don’t much care about this’ Nick said, still in English, to Bonnecourt when they were clear of the town. ‘I think we’d do better not to go through Ste. Marie de Pélérins—we aren’t so well known there. Can’t we by-pass it?’

  Yes, one could take a bi-furcation towards Orthez, northwards, and after Ste. Marie bend south again, and rejoin the main road to St. Jean-Pied-de-Port, Bonnecourt replied from the floor. ‘But I must sit up to see the turning.’

  ‘All right, do.’ Quietly the hunter rose from the floor and sat on Nick’s right.

  ‘Quite soon, now’ he said after some time, also speaking in English. ‘But could we go more slowly?’ Pierre, still vexed, was pushing the Humber along at a considerable speed.

  ‘Ralentissez, Pierre’ Nick said.

  ‘Pourquoi? Moi, je voudrais me coucher!’ the old man replied.

  ‘Unless you wish Milord to congédier you first thing tomorrow, you obey orders!’ Nick said firmly. ‘Drive more slowly.’

  ‘If Monsieur Nick intends to be prompt, he means today! In two hours we shall have the dawn’ the irrepressible Pierre replied—both the men in the back laughed.

  ‘There is the turning—to the right’ Bonnecourt said after a moment.

  ‘Ici à droite, Pierre,’ Nick transmitted the direction in French.

  ‘This is not the direct route to Tardets, Monsieur’ the old man protested. ‘After all, I know these roads, moi!’ Nick leaned forward and took him by the shoulder.

  ‘Pierre, either you do what you are told, or I drive’ he said, very slowly and quietly. Reluctantly, the chauffeur turned to the right, still grumbling—‘Moi, I do not understand what goes on.’

  ‘This is not necessary. To obey orders suffices’ Nick Heriot told him.

  After a considerable détour, still following Bonnecourt’s directions the car turned left—that is to say south—again, and well beyond Ste. Marie regained the main road, which here swings up in a big loop towards the Pyrenees; Tardets lies almost at the apex of this loop. But some distance short of the little grey mountain town, and well before the dawn, Bonnecourt, constantly staring out of the window, touched Nick on the shoulder. ‘Let him stop here.’

  Nick told Pierre to stop. They were on a quiet stretch of road between beechwoods—quite out in the country.

  ‘Monsieur Nick said he wished to go to Tardets; this is not Tardets’ the chauffeur replied. He was one of the few people who knew the twins apart.

  ‘Pierre, one other word, and I will give you the beating of your life, and throw you out on the road’ Nick said, still slowly—now it was Pierre who laughed. ‘Monsieur Nick est impayable’ he said, pulling up.

  Bonnecourt got out, and wrung Nick by the hand. ‘I cannot thank you enough; I hardly thought we should manage it.’

  ‘Send us an address’ Nick said—he hadn’t much faith in Colin. ‘Address it to my Father; his mail won’t be tampered with! ‘We’ll keep an eye on Madame, and let you know how she is.’

  ‘Thank you—and please also let me know how all goes with Mme. Jimmison and her child. Such a courageous, such a courteous woman—truly noble!’

  The big car had to drive on some distance before reaching a place where it could be turned, in the mouth of a small lane leading up to the left; Pierre manoeuvred it round, and started back towards Pau. As he did so, they saw in the headlights Bonnecourt standing at the roadside—he was too prudent to enter the lane while the car was there, but Pierre was not deceived.

  ‘Ah!—this is the place. Not in Tardets at all! And now will Monsieur Nick tell me why the police pursue his friend, who must be driven all over the region in the middle of the night to evade them, and hides his car in our garage?’

  Nick spoke rather carefully. ‘Pierre, you know M. Bonnecourt perfectly well; he is our friend. But do you ignore the fact that he saved the lives of countless members of the Royal Air Force’—Nick rolled all those Rs in the true French fashion—‘during the last war, taking them across the frontier at the risk of his life? Tonight he has again risked his life to bring a friend of ours down to a clinique here, because she was having a fausse couche.’

  ‘Then why do the police seek him?’ Pierre pursued obstinately.

  ‘I do not know—and if I did I should not tell you! For you there is only one essential: to keep that garage door locked, and your mouth shut. Is that understood? We owe M. Bonnecourt much.’

  ‘C’est entendu’ Pierre said. ‘Now, without ce Monsieur, can we return by the direct route, through Ste. Marie?’

  ‘Yes.’

  But the return journey showed how wise Nick’s pessimistic precaution in making the détour had been. There were roadblocks on both sides of Ste. Marie des Pélérins, and the police were much more pertinacious than those in Pau. Nick’s evening clothes lent colour to his story that he had been at a party with friends near St. Jean Pied-de-Port, and the Humber’s papers confirmed his statement that he was a son of le Lord Heriot; but it was all rather disturbing, and took a long time—day was breaking as they approached Pau.

  ‘Let Monsieur Nick continue to tell his own lies’ old Pierre growled, seeing another road-block ahead. And this time even the Pau police were more difficult; there had been time for them to be more fully briefed, and they wished to know why the young Milord had left the grand ball at his home?—they knew positively that the man they sought, Bonnecourt, had been seen in Milord’s house. Nick managed to bluff it out. For him, he had not seen M. Bonnecourt, he had occupied himself with the guests of his parents; but he had slipped away to visit friends who were also having a party that night, as he had long since promised to do—the party of Miladi Heriot had been given à l’improviste for a Portuguese young lady, the daughter of the Duc de Ericeira. Doubtless the police would have a record of her entry, some weeks ago. Her prénom? Luzia.

  He just got by with it, with this flourish of details, but he was devoutly thankful when Pierre had swung the Humber in through the garage gate; the young man got out and closed and bolted it—he thanked Pierre, and once more enjoining him to keep his mouth shut, he walked across to the house.

  The party was over. No cars encumbered the drive any more, but a small, rather sleepy agent still stood by the front door—Nick saw him from a distance, and went round to the back; here the door was locked. But when people have been brought up in a house as children they know it as rabbits know their secret runs and burrows; Nick Heriot bethought him of two other places, the laundry and the old bakery. Both the doors were locked, but there was a window in the laundry which could be eased up with a coin and climbed through, b
ecause it had a defective catch—he and Dick had used it dozens of times for surreptitious entries. He used it again now, and made his way through a maze of passages to the front hall, where he went up in the lift. The temporary butler, like the cars, had gone, and the lights had been turned off; early daylight was beginning to filter in through the Venetian-shuttered windows—but in the dining-room light, Nick saw, still shone. He went in, and found his twin and Luzia, tucking into the last of the lobster patties, and sipping champagne.

  ‘What have you done with Bonnecourt?’ Dick asked at once. ‘He’s gone—I went to Lucien’s, and he isn’t there.’

  ‘No. I thought he’d better clear out, so I took him off.’

  ‘Where to?’

  ‘Tardets—that was where he wanted to go.’

  ‘Ah, this is good!’ Luzia interjected. ‘You remove him! Excellent, Nick—always you do the right thing.’

  ‘Have any trouble?’ Dick asked—as he spoke he found a clean tumbler, and poured some wine into it for his brother.

  ‘Not too bad on the way out. I decided to by-pass Ste. Marie, going, and that was just as well—there were road-blocks all the way as we came back, and they’re pretty tough here in the town now,’ Nick said, drinking champagne from his tumbler, and taking a lobster patty himself. He yawned. ‘Goodness, I am sleepy! What a night! Where’s Colin?’

  ‘Gone to that little pub just beyond the clinic—the Victoire.’

  ‘Julia has a baby boy’ Luzia pronounced, triumphantly. ‘Very small, and very red—but perfect. And the Professor says that it will not remain red; it will become normal.’

  ‘Jolly good’ Nick said, yawning again—he emptied his tumbler. ‘Well I’m going to get some sleep; I’m no good at these late hours. It’s broad daylight!’

  ‘I too would sleep’ Luzia said. ‘But it was a lovely party. How kind your Mother is! And I am so happy that Julia has her baby.’