Emergency in the Pyrenees

by Ann Bridge

  ‘Oh, that’s all been seen to’ Nick said cheerfully. ‘I took him over to Tardets this morning, before daylight.’

  ‘Where is Tardets?’

  ‘Away towards St. Jean Pied-de-Port—it’s his home town, and full of his friends. It was from there that he operated during the war.’

  ‘Did he say what he was going to do?’ Jamieson was a little concerned at this airy way of dealing with one of his Office’s most valued former agents.

  ‘Yes. He said he should lie up and get some sleep, and find out what the situation was on the frontier, and then cross to Pamplona. Colin, he said you’d have an address for him there—have you?’

  ‘Of course.’ It was Jamieson who replied—Nick looked at the older man with interest. Aha and oho!—Pamplona must have an Intelligence branch of some sort.

  ‘Did you see any signs of police activity near the frontier?’ the Colonel asked; methodically—albeit rather ignorantly—pursuing his enquiries.

  ‘We never went near the frontier, so I wouldn’t know about that—it’s miles away, though Tardets is the nearest town to it, actually. But there was plenty of fuss on the main road—on the way back there were road-blocks on both sides of Ste. Marie des Pélérins, and again here.’

  Jamieson frowned.

  ‘None on your way out?’

  ‘Not here at Pau; we by-passed Ste. Marie on the way to Tardets, just in case; because the police had stopped us once or twice in the town here, and I didn’t like it all that much.’

  ‘Did the police who stopped you see Bonnecourt?’ Jamieson asked, still frowning.

  ‘Oh Lord no! I put him on the floor, with a rug over him’ Nick replied, grinning. ‘You see I dug out our old chauffeur, whom all the local police know by sight, and Her Ladyship’s tumbril of a Humber—which is equally familiar! I thought that might be good camouflage.’

  ‘You seem to have acted very wisely’ Jamieson said. ‘All the same——’ he paused. ‘Colin, I think you’d better drive over to Pamplona and find out if Bonnecourt has turned up there.’

  ‘Now?’ Colin asked dismally. ‘I haven’t had any lunch.’

  ‘You’ve only just finished your breakfast!’ the Colonel retorted. ‘Get some lunch on the way.’

  ‘Am I to telephone, or to telegraph?’ the young man asked.

  ‘Telegraph—better to Madame J., at the Clinique. Simply say “arrivé” or “non-arrivé”; then I shall know what goes on’ Jamieson told him.

  ‘Well, could I take your car? If I go back to the Victoire and get mine I shall have that bloody agent with me again, and that will make endless delays at the frontier.’

  ‘That’s a sound idea’ Nick put in. He had glanced out of the window during this interchange, and saw the hired Citroën on the drive. ‘If that’s your Cit., Sir, it has no GB plate—a help in itself.’

  ‘If you are Nick, I think I must recruit you!’ Colonel Jamieson said, at last smiling. ‘All right—off you go, Colin.’ He turned to the two young Heriots. ‘Perhaps one of you will take me back to the Victoire. I’ll use your room till you get back, Colin, and your car.’

  As Colin went out Luzia Ericeira walked in. ‘Oh, how is Julia, Colin?’ she asked him in the doorway.

  ‘Find out from her husband!’ Colin said irritably. ‘I’m being sent back to Spain.’ He went out, slamming the door behind him.

  Luzia stood still, looking at the three men, for a moment; then she went over to Jamieson, who like his young hosts had risen at her entrance. ‘May I now call you Philip’ she asked, holding out her hand.

  ‘Yes, Condesa.’

  ‘And how is Julia? You have seen her already?’

  ‘Just for a moment. She’s quite well, but a little doped still.

  ‘Naturally. Have you seen the baby? Is it still red?’

  ‘No, not in the least—just the ordinary colour of babies’ the Colonel said, startled by this peculiar enquiry. ‘Why should he be red?’

  ‘Last night, just born, he was’ Luzia said—‘very red. But the Professor said that it would pass. I am glad it has; the colour was terribly ugly.’

  The twins and the Colonel all laughed. But her next announcement was no laughing matter.

  ‘Dick, do you know that the Special Police are going all through the house?—those en civils?’ (She meant plain-clothes). ‘They come to my room just now, and look in the cupboards, and under the bed. I think they seek for the hunter of isard, your friend.’

  Nick went straight to the window; he was just in time to see Colin swinging Philip’s hired Citroën round the curve and out of the drive; but he also saw several men in plain clothes heading off through the gardens.

  ‘That’s the Sureté all right’ he said. ‘I’d better go and make sure that they don’t harry old Lucien, and that Pierre doesn’t make a fool of himself about last night.’ He went out. Dick however was angry.

  ‘They came into your room?’ he asked Luzia. ‘Oh, we can’t have this—what a nerve! I’d better go and see that they don’t wake my parents. Excuse me, Colonel.’ He too hurried out of the room.

  ‘These are not very pleasant people’ Luzia said, going over and pouring herself out a glass of sherry from the tray Dick had brought in. ‘Naturally in Portugal we have our Special Police also—it is necessary, with the Communists seeking to infiltrate everywhere. But I think our PIDE behave with more courtesy.’

  This was something that Philip Jamieson particularly wished to hear about—not the PIDE’ S courtesy, but the behaviour of the Sureté in regard to Julia.

  ‘Were you there when they went up to Larége and called on my wife?’ he asked.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘How did they behave? It is important to me to know this.’

  ‘Very unpleasantly. They accused her of lying when she told them that Colin had gone away; they went all through the house, throwing our dresses out of the armoires onto the floor, instead of looking behind them, as they could easily have done—and when they returned to Julia, downstairs, they made threats as to what would happen, to her and to Colin, if this foolish young Frenchman who escaped was not found.’

  ‘How did my wife take all this?’ Jamieson asked, again frowning.

  ‘Calmly—Julia is always calm. But she was disturbed. It was extremely unpleasant,’ the Portuguese girl repeated.

  Philip was shocked by this report.

  ‘How long ago was this?’ he asked.

  ‘One day—no, perhaps two, before I came down to Pau—I do not remember exactly. She seemed to have recovered herself completely, or I should not have left her. But it could have been this disturbance which brought on the fausse couche. Oh, how I wish I had not come away! That there had not been this ball! But—enfin—she and the little one are both all right, and that is the essential.’

  Philip Jamieson had spent a great part of his official life in assessing people’s characters, and particularly their reliability as reporters of events; even in this short interview he took Luzia’s measure, and gave her full marks. (At the wedding, when she had put in an appearance as Julia’s solitary bridesmaid, and at the luncheon afterwards, he had spoken to her very little—though even then he had registered the deliberate way in which she had worn the simplest of dresses, and played down her own great beauty in order to give the bride pride of place.) He took this opportunity of consulting her further.

  ‘Condesa, have you any idea why the Sureté should have connected M. Bonnecourt with this young de Lassalle’s escape?—and my wife also?’

  ‘I cannot be sure; I only make a guess’ Luzia said, measuredly. ‘Colin took an impetuous decision to let the young man go, when he found that it was Bonnecourt, whom he likes so much, who was waiting for him and his friend at the auberge; but he went on to Pau and made his constat about the accident to the police who waited at the old man’s bedside in the hospital—the one who fell, I mean. I think it possible that he said more than was necessary, and so gave the police a clue.’

  Jamieson k
new Colin well—he thought it more than possible.

  ‘Did Colin speak to you of this?’ he asked.

  ‘A little—when I told him that I had seen this young Lassalle emptying a knapsack of curious objects into a pool. He took me there next morning—very early, before people were awake; I showed him the spot, and he found these things; but he only took away a clock.’

  ‘A clock?’

  ‘Yes. It was in a camera-case, I think—but the case he left.’

  ‘What sort of case?’ Jamieson was thinking furiously, regretting that he had not checked further with the Office before he left London, nor questioned Colin more fully before he sent him back to Spain.

  ‘Of canvas—such as one carries a camera in.’

  Jamieson at once got a very fair idea of what the camera-case really was—he changed his line of questioning.

  ‘Did anyone in Larége suggest to you that these two men belonged to the O.A.S.?’

  ‘No. But I told Colin at once that I was sure they were O.A.S., and saboteurs, wishing to cause dégâts at Lacq; this was merely my idea, but I think it is that of the Sureté also!’ Luzia said, looking amused. ‘Why, otherwise, do two Frenchmen climb over the frontier, instead of crossing by car? Only to avoid the control posts, is it not?’

  ‘I agree with you’ Philip was saying, with approval, when one of those two confusing twins came in.

  ‘Well, I just beat them to it at old Lucien’s’ he said; ‘they were still hunting through the bushes. I took away the mattress from in front of the fire—that would have been a give-away!—and rubbed it into the old boy to say that he’d been asleep all night, and seen no one. But they were ahead of me at the garage—they’re all over the place! However Pierre was still in bed, and so sleepy that they hadn’t got any sense out of him—I asked them what they wanted to know, and they poured out the police report of the Humber having been reported passing through Ste. Marie des Pélérins in the small hours. So I repeated my patter about Pierre having driven me to a party near St. Jean Pied-de-Port, which of course squared with their records. Very important always to tell the same story!’ he said to Philip, with a grin.

  ‘I think you must be Nick’ Philip was beginning, when again the duplicate of the young man he was speaking to entered.

  ‘Well, I’ve chased those bastards out of the house’ he announced with satisfaction. ‘I told them I should ring up the Préfêt if they didn’t clear off. Going into the bedrooms of our guests!—quelle idée! Which is my glass? Righteous indignation makes one so thirsty. Anyhow I don’t think they disturbed the parents.’

  As he spoke the door opened, and old Lady Heriot walked in.

  ‘Who didn’t disturb your parents, Dick?’ Lady Heriot always knew her sons apart. ‘Good morning, Luzia.’ She paused in midroom. ‘I see you have a guest—please introduce him.’

  ‘This is Colonel Jamieson’ the twins said in chorus. ‘My Mother, Lady Heriot.’

  ‘Oh, how do you do? How excellent that you were able to come. How is your wife?—and the child?’

  Philip repeated that they were both well.

  ‘I am so glad. We all took a great fancy to Mrs. Jamieson when she was with us. Where are you staying?’

  Philip said that he was at the Victoire.

  ‘Ah yes—most convenient. But the cuisine there is only rather moderate. I hope you will lunch with us?’

  Philip accepted; it was now after one o’clock, and from what he knew of small French hotels he realised that the repas du midi at the Victorie would begin sharp at 12.30, and end at 1.15.

  ‘Is His Lordship awake?’ one of the twins asked.

  ‘No, dear. He was tired, and when he is tired he is apt to sleep badly—so I gave him an immensely potent pill! I believe they call it Tuinal’ she said to Jamieson, with a sly smile which reminded him of the grins of her indistinguishable sons. ‘Such a mercy, in this exhausting modern world, that these pills which knock you out completely, and yet do no harm, should have been invented.’

  ‘You oughtn’t to use expressions like “knock you out”, Your Ladyship’ one of the twins expostulated.

  ‘Dearest, why not?’

  ‘I don’t think it’s in character with you, nor with your age bracket.’

  ‘If Lady Heriot will allow me to say so, I think the phrase is completely in character—and that she is independent of any age brackets!’ Philip was impelled to say.

  ‘Oh, how kind you are! Darling, tell them one extra to lunch.’ As a twin went out—‘Darling, am I not to be allowed any sherry?’ she said to the other.

  Philip was enchanted by this. How seldom in the exhausting modern world one met a Mother who refused to pour out a drink for herself when an able-bodied son was there to do it for her—most women nowadays, silly fools, mixed and handed drinks to young men lounging in armchairs. He resolved there and then to see to it that his Julia should be as firm later on with the minute object, now in the creche in the Route de Toulouse, as Lady Heriot was with her strapping offspring. Probably Julia would be, anyhow, if they had enough; she was very sensible. He must have a talk with that Professor man presently, and find out whether she could ever have normal births—he had a vague idea that three Caesarians was about the limit; but the Professor had still been in bed when he went to the clinic.

  The luncheon was pleasant, the food admirable; and Philip was increasingly attracted by his elderly hostess—her natural sympathy, and her shrewdness. At one point—‘Have you telegraphed to Mrs. Hathaway about the baby?’ she asked him.

  ‘No. I’m afraid I never thought to.’

  ‘Oh, but you must. Mary’s only child died; Julia is her goddaughter, and the nearest thing she has to a child of her own. She ought to know at once. Nick dear, bring the block and pad off my desk in the morning-room; then Colonel Jamieson can write his message, and you can telephone it.’

  ‘Mayn’t I eat my Baba au Rhum? She’s done it rather well today.’

  ‘Oh, you greedy child! All right—“finish your dinner”, as Nanny used to say!’ She turned again to Jamieson. ‘I am sure you know Mary Hathaway?’

  ‘Yes, of course. Well, a most splendid person. We met before our marriage in rather distressing circumstances.’ He mentioned old Professor Burbage’s sudden death in the Scillies, the funeral, and how gallantly the old lady had insisted in going through with the meal afterwards in the hotel—‘She would eat the “funeral baked meats” with the people who had been kind to him in the Islands.’

  ‘Yes, of course. Mary is gallant; really valiant. Thank you for telling me this, Colonel Jamieson; of course she didn’t, only reported that silly old fool’s death. Why she was so attached to him I can’t think.’ Lady Heriot paused. ‘Do you believe he was a traitor? I do.’

  ‘No. I think he was just one of these learned fools, who are wholly without commonsense. He slipped up once, and the Russians kept the heat turned on him for a very long time. That does break people’s morale.’

  ‘Oh well, you are very charitable, I see—or perhaps merely very discreet!’ She rose. ‘Let us go and have coffee. Nick, will you now graciously consent to bring that pad and pencil off my desk?’

  In the drawing-room, constantly advised by Lady Heriot, Philip wrote out his telegram to Mrs. Hathaway. ‘Don’t say a Caesarean’ the old lady told him—‘that will worry her. Just say “safely”, or something. And give the address and the telephone number of the clinic—I expect Mary will want to ring up. She’s a great telephoner.’

  All this good counsel would have exasperated Philip from anyone else, but he had so succumbed to his hostess that he meekly followed her suggestions, and submitted his telegram for her approval.

  ‘Yes—very nice. I think you were wise not to mention the weight; five pounds is rather small. Dick, dear, please telephone that from your Father’s study.’

  When Jamieson left Nick drove him back to the clinic in one of the Heriot cars, which an agent, still stationed at the gate, allowed to pass unquestioned. ‘Bus
y, aren’t they?’ the young man said. ‘Your brother-in-law. or whatever he is, seems to have stirred up a regular hornet’s-nest.’

  ‘Cousin-by-marriage. Yes, it looks like that; they seem very persistent.’

  ‘Well let us know when you hear if Bonnecourt has got clear. He’s a splendid person, and what he did for the English in the last war was nobody’s business.’ As he swung into the drive at the clinic, ‘Just ring us if there’s anything we can do’ Nick said, and drove off again.

  The nurse on duty was rather reluctant to let the Colonel see Julia—patients reposed themselves in the afternoon, she pronounced. However Philip persisted, and it proved that Madame was awake—much more awake then she had been in the morning, in fact; the effect of the anaesthetic had now entirely worn off. Philip offered her a cigarette.

  ‘Oh no, mustn’t smoke. The taste of the tobacco gets into the milk in twenty minutes, and it may put the child off—anyhow it’s not good for them. Mustn’t eat chocolates either, for the same reason—so I’ve stopped at once.’

  ‘Dearest, how horrid for you. Do you mind my smoking?’

  ‘No, not a bit—puff it at me!’ she said, smiling and relaxed. But when her husband got down to business and told her that a telegram might come addressed to her, and that she must have it taken round at once to the Hotel Victoire, she became very alert.

  ‘Who from?’

  ‘Colin—to let me know about Bonnecourt. We want to be sure that he’s got away; but as the Sureté are so active I thought it best to have the telegram sent to you, here.’

  ‘Quite right. Where has precious Bonnecourt gone?’

  ‘To Pamplona, we hope. I’ve sent Colin over to find out if he’s turned up. As things are, he can’t possibly stay in France at present.’

  ‘How was he to get to Pamplona?’

  Philip recounted Nick Heriot’s neat move in carting Bonnecourt over to Tardets in the small hours. Julia laughed and reflected.

  ‘Well if B. can’t stay in France pro tem, he’d much better go to Glentoran’ she said at length. ‘They’re terribly short of gillies just now, Edina said in her last letter—and there can’t be all that difference between stalking isard and stalking red deer! They’ve let both the shooting-lodges, and they’re starved for good stalkers—I know there’s at least one cottage empty since Mac-Kerrow left.’