by Ann Bridge
‘I’ll keep in touch with Acland. He’s all on, and loves the idea’ Nick replied—‘and I’ll go over when the day is fixed and tell Bonnecourt accordingly.’ It had already been decided by Jamieson not to risk a telephone message, even via Pauline Pontarlet, but that Nick should drive to Tardets and instruct the hunter when to go up to the plateau. ‘Anyhow, Sir, I’ve been thinking,’ Nick went on. ‘If you’re going to drive over to Pamplona tomorrow and change cars with young Monro, it would be much better to make it Wednesday; you’d hardly get back here before first light on Tuesday, and you said you wanted to be on hand for the pick-up.’
‘Yes, I do.’ If there is one thing Intelligence feels strongly about it is not letting an agent be collected by anyone who does not know him by sight; all too easy for ‘them’ to put a counter-agent on board a train or a plane. ‘Does young Acland know Bonnecourt?’ he asked now.
‘Oddly enough, no; he’s always climbed with the other guide.’
‘Then either you or I will have to be up at this plateau.’
‘If you don’t mind riding pillion on a motor-bike over rather rough going, I could get you up to within an hour’s walk of it.’
‘Excellent’ the Colonel said. Dick looked surprised.
‘What mo-bike?’ he asked his brother.
‘Dr. Fourget’s. You know he’s forever chugging up the most ghastly tracks on it, where his car can’t get, to reach cases.’ He turned to Jamieson. ‘You wouldn’t believe, Sir, how often the peasants here impale themselves on their dung-forks, in the highest spots—or gash off their thumbs with hatchets! I rang the old boy up and he says I can borrow his machine.’
Philip laughed at the idea of the self-impaled peasants, but he was relieved that he could be taken to check Bonnecourt’s actual departure.
‘Very well—settle with young Acland for Wednesday, if your brother reports all clear by then.’
‘I’ll go and collect the bike tomorrow in any case, to have it ready’ Nick said. ‘Dick and Luzia can drop me off at Labielle on their way.’
This reminded Dick of the matter of scrubbing the floors; he went off to see his Mother, and laid on a sturdy young housemaid for the purpose.
‘No, of course Luzia mustn’t do that’ Lady Heriot said. ‘Emma can go—she’ll enjoy the outing.’
‘Whoever suggested that the Countess should do such a thing?’ Lord Heriot enquired.
‘Luzia did!’ (The Portuguese girl had absented herself earlier to write some letters.) ‘I gather she’s been doing quite a lot of scrubbing for Mrs. Jamieson.’
‘All nonsense, from beginning to end!’ the old man said. ‘Where’s that fellow Jamieson? I meant to tell him off about it.’
But Jamieson, leaving his excuses with Nick, had gone back to the Victoire. Next morning he started at six, blinded up over the Grandpont Pass and down the further side. After leaving the mountains he turned west, crossing low foothills and outlying ridges—the Spanish slope of the Pyrenees is much more gradual than the abrupt approach on the northern side—till presently he was down in the Aragon valley, the vast rolling tawny plain of Northern Spain, where small towns perch on steep little hills. One of these, a sign-post informed him, was Berdun, and he slowed down to look at it—fantastically crowning its hill-top the white and blue-washed houses, jammed together on the summit, glittered like silver in the sun. Berdun, Verdun? Probably the same name originally; B. and V. were practically interchangeable in Spanish, the man thought—anyhow a dun, a fort; indubitably a Celtic place-name. He must tell Julia; it would please her, as it did him. He drove on more slowly, looking for the abandoned air-field. Yes, there it was—the forlorn, deserted little control-tower of mud-coloured brick, the ragged wind-sock, also mud-coloured with age, flying from a pole close by. Well he must bring Colin out and check all details with him on the spot. He drove on, fast, to Pamplona—there was a lot to arrange, in a short time.
Colin was staying at the Hotel Bristol—so much Jamieson had managed to learn in their abortive telephone conversation the evening before; it was now getting on for two, and they had lunch. Philip explained the arrangements for getting Bonnecourt to Glentoran, and that Colin was to take him the whole way.
‘Oh, good—I shall see Aglaia; Edina’s asked her up for a bit.’ (Aglaia was Colin’s wife.) ‘But has B. got a Spanish visa? He’ll want it at Gib.’
‘I shouldn’t think so for a moment—he seems to me too casual for words.’
‘Oh, have you met him?’
‘Yes—I’ll tell you about that presently. I shall have to ring up Gibraltar after lunch and get all that fixed. I expect I’d better do it from your local H.Q.—who is this Señor Moreño?’
‘The local garagiste!’ Colin said grinning.
‘Oh well, very often it’s the barber’ Jamieson said, resignedly; the peculiar methods of his Service held no surprises for him. ‘Box at all sound-proof?’
‘No, no box—an extension in his bedroom. He mounts guard outside; or I do, in this case. Who shall you speak to?’
‘Well, as it’s all rather a rush, I think I’ll ring the Convent. I know Bramwell, the A.D.C. But as we’re not sure of the day yet, you’ll have to let him know when to meet you at La Linea, once you’re well under way.’
From Señor Moreño’s bedside telephone Jamieson put through his call to the Governor’s oddly-named house in Gibraltar. No, Major Bramwell was out—‘the Duty Officer speaking.’
Philip embarked on one of those complicated telephoned explanations which are supposed to convey their meaning without, if possible, giving too much away to unwanted listeners. Fortunately the Duty Officer was very quick at the uptake.
‘Yes, I see. Two flights home, and a Spanish visa needed for the—er—newcomer. Well, I or Bramwell had better go up to La Linea to see to all that, when we know the day and time. What’s the name of this man of yours who’s bringing him? Oh, Monro. Not Colin, by any chance? It is?—oh, it will be nice to see him again; we were at prep-school together. My name? Satterthwaite. Right—when we hear, we’ll be there.’
Philip passed all this on to Colin; then they drove out, Colin now in his own Rover, Philip in the hire-car, to inspect the derelict airfield.
The track to it from the road was rather bumpy from long disuse, but they got their cars along and parked close under, and behind, the shabby little control tower; Philip got out and walked back to the main road. When he returned—‘Go two yards farther on, and you’ll barely be visible’ he said. ‘You may have to wait here some time, and you don’t want to arouse curiosity. See if you can pull in closer under the tower.’ Colin did this, and Jamieson again went out onto the road.
‘All right’ he said when he came back. ‘Completely unsighted.’ Then he walked out to examine the airfield itself. A hoopoe flew up in front of him from between the tufts of yellowish grass; it alighted again, raising and lowering its delicate crest. and moved away with quick light steps. Philip walked on. As Nick had said, red-and-white markers, their colours dimmed by the prevailing tawny dust, still outlined the main run-way; the whole place was becoming overgrown with grass, withered to a pale gold at summer’s end, and here and there sagey bushes had begun to spring up. But he saw no goats, and there was nothing else to prevent a safe landing. Satisfied, he went back to the cars.
‘Well unless you hear to the contrary, be here, ready, from 10.45 onwards on Wednesday’ he told Colin. ‘Full up with air, oil, and gas. Have you got plenty of money?’
‘I think so—but I can always get more from Moreño.’
‘Well don’t run short. It’s only for food and an hotel on the way, and possible breakdowns! Bramwell will see to everything at Gibraltar.’ He said goodbye to his wife’s cousin, and drove, hard, back to Pau.
* * *
The Plateau de Permounat is a most peculiar place, astonishing to anyone unfamiliar with the western Pyrenees. It lies high, among rough wild surroundings; set between the grey ridges and rocky slopes is an oval of fine grass
over 200 yards long, as smooth as a lawn or a cricket-pitch, and absolutely level save for 4 enormous boulders, as big as cottages, standing at one side of it. Here Colonel Jamieson came on that Wednesday morning, after jolting uncomfortably on the pillion of Dr. Fourget’s motorcycle up some exceedingly uncouth tracks, till Nick parked the machine at a farm; then they walked uphill for another hour. Dick, on his return with Luzia and the sturdy Emma from their house-cleaning at Larége, had reported positively that all the flocks and shepherds had already come down from the high pastures, including Permounat; Nick had driven over to Tardets next day and given Bonnecourt word to be at the Plateau by 10.30 on the Wednesday; then he had told the obliging Master Acland to be there by 10.20—and Philip had sent a brief telegram to Colin: ‘Wednesday as arranged.’
‘What an extraordinary place!’ Jamieson exclaimed, as he and Nick reached the top of a shallow col, and looked down onto the green little plateau. ‘I never saw anything like it in my life—not in the Alps, nor the Caucasus; nowhere.’
‘There are several of them about here’ Nick said, starting down. ‘Let’s wait in the cabane, out of the wind.’
In spite of Dick’s reassurances, the mere mention of the possible presence of shepherds at Permounat had caused Philip Jamieson to take certain simple precautions; he had brought a haversack with an out-size flask of cognac, and three or four small glasses, along with his sandwiches—knock-out tablets he always carried in his pocket as a matter of course. These measures proved to have been wise—when Nick pushed open the door of the cabane and walked in, a sleepy peasant roused up from one of the bunks on which the cheese-making shepherds slept when their flocks were grazing the high pastures. Nick asked him, rather brusquely, what he was doing there?
‘I miss one sheep—all yesterday I seek it, and do not find it’ the man said, rubbing his eyes. ‘So then I sleep—today I seek it again.’
‘Gently’ Philip said to Nick. ‘Let me talk to him.’ He commiserated with the man over the loss of such a valuable animal as a sheep, and offered him a glass of cognac before he renewed his search—as he spoke setting his glasses out on the rough wooden table, and opening his flask.
The peasant was delighted. He drank, wiped his unshaven lips, drank again, and asked where ces messieurs came from?
‘From Pau; we make a small ascension’ Philip said. While they talked he looked at his watch; it was ten minutes past ten. None too much time—please God young Acland didn’t arrive too soon. He told Nick, in English, to ask the man the best way up a small peak at the further end of the plateau; while they went to the door and looked out he re-filled the shepherd’s glass, and crumbled a couple of tablets from his small phial into it. When the pair returned, Nick reporting the route—a sharp boy, Nick, Jamieson decided, always able to act on a hint without any dotting of i’s or crossing of t’s—he handed the drugged glass to the man. ‘Another petit verre, Monsieur, before you renew your search.’
The peasant was already a little dopey; he had had one good glass of brandy on an empty stomach. Gratefully, wishing the strangers good health and good fortune, he drank away at the second, while Philip kept his eye on his watch, and listened for the sound of Acland’s plane.
‘Go out and look if there’s any sign of B.’ he said to Nick. ‘I’d rather he didn’t see this man.’ Nick went off.
In fact the timing was perfect. Three minutes before the very light, faint hum of the plane became audible the peasant slumped over sideways on the rough bench beside the table; Philip went to the door of the cabane and summoned Nick—‘Come and help me to lay him on one of the bunks.’
‘What’s happened to him?’ Nick asked, surprised.
‘I put him out—had to. Take his feet.’ Together they lifted the man onto the bunk; Philip laid a blanket over him—‘Chilly, up here,’ he said. ‘But he’ll be all right in a couple of hours.’ They heard the sound of the plane, went out, and watched Tim Acland’s neat and precise banking and turning, till he landed on the minute lawn-smooth space, and came to a halt.
‘Well, that was all right’ the young pilot said, leaning out of his machine. ‘Wind absolutely perfect! How do you do, Sir’ he said politely to Jamieson. ‘Where’s my passenger?’
‘Due in eight minutes’ the Colonel said, looking at his watch.
‘Then I’ll turn her.’ With considerable skill he manoeuvred his machine round, taxied back to the far end of the plateau, and helped by Nick turned again, till he was facing into the wind. He had just completed this performance when a figure appeared, coming over another of the small cols between the rocky peaks which surrounded the strange little spot, and walked rapidly down towards them; with immense relief Jamieson saw that it was really Bonnecourt—he was beginning to fear that this end of the Pyrenees might be alive with unwanted peasants.
‘Morning’ he said to the hunter. ‘Here’s your pilot, and your plane. Now you know the drill—Monro is waiting for you down on the far side; he will drive you to Gibraltar, fly with you to England, and take you right up to this place in Scotland. He’ll take you to the Office on the way, and introduce you—but you’re well remembered there!’ he said pleasantly. ‘After that you will get your orders from London.’
‘Admirable’ Bonnecourt said. ‘I am infinitely grateful!’ He turned to Nick. ‘Have you put ma pauvre voiture into the Gave?’
‘Not yet’ Nick said, laughing—‘There hasn’t been time. But I will, I promise you. One can’t do everything at once—and there has been quite a lot to do.’
‘Thank you—I know that I can rely on you.’ Then the hunter turned to Jamieson. ‘And how soon may I expect Madame my wife to join me in Scotland?’
Philip was amused at the order in which Bonnecourt placed his enquiries—voiture first, wife second. But his reply was gentle and considerate.
‘I thought you would wish to see the house, and the general situation, and write to Madame about it all, before she comes. For her, there is no hurry—in fact it will be more prudent that she does not follow you too soon; and she will wish, presumably, to make arrangements for the care of the property at Larége during your absence—which may well be of some duration. But my wife has written already to her cousin, Mrs. Reeder, asking her to ensure that all is made easy and pleasant for Madame Bonnecourt.’
‘Madame Jamieson se charge de cela? In that case, all will certainly be well,’ Bonnecourt said. ‘Please give her my thanks.’ He paused, and looked a little hesitantly at Jamieson. ‘This lady in Scotland is like Madame?’ he asked.
‘Not to look at; she’s more like Monro—black and white.’
‘But she has the same character?’
Jamieson was surprised afresh by Bonnecourt’s pre-occupation with Julia and her character.
‘Well, she’s very competent, and very kind’ he said. ‘I’m sure your wife will get on with her, and be taken good care of.’ He looked at his watch—he was anxious to get the plane and its passenger away before anything else inconvenient occurred—the unexpected shepherd had been nuisance enough. But the hunter took his arm.
‘Just one moment, Colonel. Would it be possible for my wife to come down and speak with Madame Jamieson, who knows this place in Scotland so well?’ he asked, almost wistfully. ‘It—it would reassure her.’ He turned to Nick. ‘Mon cher Nick, I am sure you would not mind bringing Madame down.’
‘Look, Bonnecourt, if it’s safe, we’ll certainly arrange that’ the Colonel said, firmly. ‘But if it means a risk for her, or for all our operations here, it may not be possible. Leave it to me. Now you’d better hop in and get off. Goodbye—bon voyage, and au revoir in London.’
Bonnecourt, shaking hands with him and with Nick, climbed into the little plane. But just as Tim Acland started up his engine a sheep, baa-ing loudly, came down off the further slopes and started across the small run-way, heading towards the cabane.
‘Oh God! Chase the damned thing away!’ Jamieson said to Nick. ‘It’s probably looking for its master.’ Nick
, laughing, tried to chivvy the animal back up the slopes down which it had come; but sheep are not easily driven by anything but sheepdogs, and the creature continued to cavort about on the grass, vainly pursued by Nick.
‘Get off the moment you can’ Jamieson said to young Acland; then he hurried across to the cabane, went in, and shut the door, to keep the sheep’s voice from its owner’s ears. Probably he had given the man a strong enough dose, but peasants were very close to the animal world, and the links between them incredibly strong—he was taking no chances. In fact the shepherd was stirring faintly under the blanket; but when, to Philip’s great relief, the sound of the plane’s engine taking off drowned the baa-ing, the man lay still again. Through the small cloudy window Jamieson saw the little machine rise, clear a low col at the western end of the plateau, bank, and head away South; he went out to see it better. Nick, fairly howling with laughter, was dancing about between the sheep and the door; Philip shut this after him, and stood watching till the plane disappeared.
‘Well that’s all right’ he said, as the hum of the engine died away in the distance. ‘I’ll just stow the glasses, and then we’ll go. What a brute! Keep it out.’ He kicked at the persistent sheep, slid into the hut, and shut the door behind him; stuffing the glasses, rolled in a handkerchief, into his haversack, he rejoined Nick.
‘There you are—go in and find your master, you silly old thing’ Nick addressed the sheep, propping the door ajar with a stone; they could see the animal sniffing in the entrance as they climbed up to the small col from which they had come down. ‘Probably eat half a blanket, and die of it’ Nick said—‘I ought not to have left the door open.’ He made as if to turn back.
‘Oh, bother the sheep!’ Jamieson exclaimed unsympathetically. ‘It’s given us enough trouble already. Come on.’
They paused for a sandwich at the farm where they had left the Doctor’s motor-cycle, and then had a jolting journey back to Pau. Philip picked up his car, drove to the clinic, and hurried in to speak to Julia; he had returned from Pamplona too late the night before to see her, and left too early that morning. She was just starting her mid-day meal; after a hasty kiss he went to eat at the little hotel—‘I’ll come in again just before four’ he said. That all right?’