* * *
She’d accepted one of his Caporals; they were sitting again now, with the map still spread.
‘You’re saying we might stop at Marthe’s instead of pushing on to Lezèle.’
‘Yes – but only if we had to. For instance – if we’d run into trouble somewhere and one of us was hurt?’
‘You want me to ask her whether in that kind of emergency we could knock on her door.’
‘Exactly. You’d be as good as home – so we’d leave you there, and in the morning I’d take them on to Lezèle. Or if anyone had been hurt—’
‘Henri could visit his sister. Marthe doesn’t have a telephone, incidentally.’
‘She’s bound to have a neighbour who does. It would be Marthe herself needing attention, of course.’
Rosie let smoke trickle out, drift across the map. She thought about it for a minute, making sure her instinctive reaction was the right one, then shook her head.
‘I’m against it. Mainly because of the Achards. As a matter of principle, former colleagues of people in their situation are best left alone.’
‘You think Marthe might be under surveillance.’
‘Her house might be. It’s an unnecessary risk from our point of view, and it also endangers her – and her brother. They don’t arrest just one member of a household or family, Guido, they take everyone who’s at all close to him or her.’
‘Talking about Brigitte now?’
Shrugging: holding that angry stare again… ‘Talking about the Peucats. But the same would apply here – certainly. Not that there’s the least harm in your trying to shield Brigitte.’
‘You’re not willing to approach Marthe Peucat, anyway?’
‘For the reason I’ve given you. Also because she doesn’t know I’m anything but her brother’s employee, and I’m averse to letting anyone know who doesn’t have to. But, Guido – this is a good plan you have. I believe in it, I felt good about it when you described it on Sunday and I still do. Let’s assume we will make it to Lezèle?’
Chapter 15
Peucat muttered to her at one point on the Saturday morning, in his consulting room, ‘Better regard your job here as permanent. Wouldn’t want to do without you.’ It was the usual Saturday rush and she was organizing the patients and producing their case-histories as he needed them – case-histories all updated, at that; she’d done a lot in the past couple of days. But she was worrying a little about what time they’d get away – to Châteauneuf via Lezèle, with her bike in the back of his gazo; with a long night ahead of her, she didn’t want to miss lunch. Even though Brigitte might be providing supper.
Roast chicken, maybe.
In the event, they were finished just before three p.m., and by then she’d taken time out to make some cheese sandwiches. She had her valise packed ready, with le Guen’s money and her pistol and spare clip of 9-millimetre in the bottom of it, other stuff filling the space above. Before breakfast this morning she’d also checked that the transceiver and its attachments were well hidden under the attic floorboard, and the board itself camouflaged with debris; her encyphering material she’d filed under ‘R’ for Rosie amongst the patients’ records.
Preparation for a long absence?
Asking herself that question: having done those things instinctively, as natural precautions. Prescience? For some reason the thought took her mind to Lise.
They were on the road, eating the sandwiches, by three-fifteen. Four kilometres to Plounévez-du-Faou, and from there about seven to Lezèle. They’d stopped there on Tuesday on the way back from Scrignac via Huelgoat, for her to introduce herself to the blacksmith; he was going to fit a new section of rear mudguard to her bike while it was in his hands. He was small, wiry, and bearded: this afternoon he left a horse he was shoeing, came and lifted the bike out of the gazo for her. Bare-armed, muscles like knots in a rope… Nodding to Peucat: ‘Getting about a lot these days, doctor?’
‘Blame this young lady, Enoch. Supposed to be making life easier for me, in fact makes me work twice as hard!’
‘That’s young ladies for you, isn’t it?’ He winked at Rosie. Muttering on his way back into the forge, ‘Early hours then, three of you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Use that door there. It’ll be unlocked. In quick and quiet, eh?’
‘No drunken singing, you mean?’
He laughed. She reminded him, ‘The doctor doesn’t know anything about it, you know.’
‘Don’t worry. But even if he did—’
‘Yes. Safe as houses. But still—’
‘Wise old bird, that one.’
Peucat got the gazo moving. ‘Murmuring sweet nothings to farriers now?’
‘Reminding him that all you know is I’ve left the bike to be fixed.’
‘Ah. Thank you.’ Then: ‘I hope it isn’t very dangerous, whatever you’re doing tonight?’
‘I hope not, too.’
A sigh. Yellowish-faced, and sad spaniel’s eyes. How she’d remember him… She added quickly, ‘It’s not. But there’s still no reason you should be caught up in it. Pity you don’t have an old flame in Paris.’
That made him laugh. They didn’t talk much after that, on the way south to Landeleau and from there west to Châteauneuf. Tonight’s action did in fact entail considerable danger: she was also aware that the after-effects wouldn’t be inconsiderable. Remembering Bob Hallowell’s comment in London three weeks ago: After ‘Mincemeat’, joint’ll be fairly jumping…
They were at Lannuzel’s place by five. Neither Guy nor Brigitte were in sight, although the pickup was outside the barn. Peucat didn’t get out of the car, only told her as she reached into the back for her valise, ‘See you at breakfast. I’ll look forward to it.’ In other words, he’d have his fingers crossed from now to then. She smiled into the concerned brown eyes: ‘Don’t worry if I’m late. I could be held up. Won’t be if I can help it – I’d like to go to Mass.’
‘We’ll go together.’
‘Lovely.’ She stepped back, he released the brake and the gazo was chugging down towards the road: she put her hand up to wave after it, but turned at Lannuzel’s shout behind her: ‘What’s his rush?’
She thought it was probably a dislike of farewells: in circumstances like these anyway. She felt the same: had even developed a certain tendresse for him – while remembering that only a fortnight ago her first impression had been of a slightly eccentric drunk. She looked back towards the gate again, but he’d gone: taking his soft heart and paternal feelings with him. She went on up to join Lannuzel.
‘He has to get back. Saturday’s a busy day for him, and we came by way of Lezèle.’
‘At a snail’s pace, no doubt?’
‘Well.’ She smiled. ‘There’s no smell of burning rubber. Is my gazo here yet?’
‘In there.’ Jerk of a thumb towards the barn. ‘I was just checking it over. It’s a Peugeot – in good order, won’t let us down.’ Looking at her valise: ‘Want to leave that in it?’
‘Sooner hang on to it, thanks. What news from the château?’
‘Yes, I’ll tell you.’ They started slowly towards the house. ‘We’ve had it under surveillance – as you know. You were here Wednesday, weren’t you. Oh, yes – I’m afraid I was a bit – edgy.’
‘No bones broken.’
‘Good. I’m – relieved… Anyway – Thursday morning, two bus-loads of U-boat crew departed, and later in the day the same buses brought another lot. It’s the way they usually change over apparently – change the bedding and clean up, I suppose, between one lot going and the other coming. But, they took the new lot away again yesterday morning – after just one night’s stay, huh?’
‘Sure it was the same lot?’
‘As many as they ever have there, so it must have been. But – also yesterday – four armoured troop carriers, and a lorry with tentage. Sixty, maybe eighty men, under canvas in the grounds now, at the rear of the château – so it wasn’t them the U-boat boys were maki
ng room for. Then in the afternoon – about this time – the brass began arriving. Four big Mercedes with swastikas flying, and about ten smaller staff cars. Not all at once, not together. There’ve been supplies arriving too – vans, Kriegsmarine commissary, one supposes.’
‘Any clues as to who came in the Mercedes?’
‘No. Unfortunately. Seems observation was difficult. So many vehicles parked around the front, the main entrance. Also I’ve stressed the need for maximum caution – not to risk being spotted, have them suspect we’re taking interest.’
‘Right.’
‘But you wouldn’t get anything much less than admirals travelling in big cars with flags on them, would you?’
‘I wouldn’t think so. Another thing is Doenitz probably wouldn’t spend the weekend here, would he? One night maximum, I’d guess: might even just come for the evening, make a speech and push off again. Possibly to Kernével – that’d serve him right… Anything else?’
‘What sticks in my mind is the short-stay U-boat leave party. Seems to me they must have known at least as soon as we did that there was to be a conference this weekend, so why send them in the first place?’
‘If some staff officer in Brest wasn’t told?’
She didn’t at that stage see it as important. Someone had decided to remove the submariners: to give the admirals and their minions more elbow-room, sole use of all the château’s facilities – bathrooms, hot water, whatever. Maybe it was a bigger conference this time than on previous occasions. The château was fairly large but not all that vast: in any case might well not have many bathrooms.
‘Let’s go in.’ Lannuzel put a hand on her arm. ‘I should have said, by the way – it’s good to see you again. And I’m very sorry—’
‘Forget it. More important things to think about, aren’t there. For instance – if Doenitz is still to come, and arrives – he’ll be quite noticeable, presumably – will you be told?’
‘Yes. At least, if he comes before dark. Although – no, come to think of it, I’ll be leaving here at seven – and the lads know it, later than that they won’t call… I was going to tell you, though – another report I had was that some of the transport left the château last night after dark. Not the big Mercs, some of the others. Whatever that tells us.’
‘Drivers or other non-essential personnel given the weekend off, perhaps. The Mercedes are still there, are they?’
‘Clearly visible.’
‘When they arrived, were they escorted?’
‘Motorcycle outriders, yes. Doenitz would have the same, obviously.’
‘Not necessarily, would you think?’
Looking at her, then nodding. ‘Small car, no escort, no brass hat even?’
‘If he’s alert to the fact he might be a target – and could accept the loss of dignity?’
It was all speculation: a toss-up, who was there and who wasn’t. All you could say was that whoever was would stand a good chance of being killed tonight, and one hoped Messrs Doenitz, Bachmann and Godt might be among them.
* * *
Brigitte provided a ragoût of boiled chicken and parsnip at about six. She was noticeably tense: watching her brother and the clock. It would be easier for her, Rosie thought, if she were allowed to know what was going on, instead of picking up scraps and having to guess at the rest of it. Knowing she’d be alone here all night, in at least partial ignorance of events, wouldn’t exactly help.
Before they ate, Lannuzel took Rosie to see the stolen gazo. He’d fuelled it but was going to provide extra fuel as well, he said.
‘You know how to fire it up?’
‘Of course.’
‘Because you’ll be starting at eight, you say—’
‘About then. Get there before dark – with luck.’
Sunset would be at about a quarter to nine. If she was stopped along the way her story would be that she’d visited a friend in Châteauneuf and from there was en route to see a family in Landuda where a child was running a high temperature. Dr Peucat would have asked her to make this call. And from Landuda she’d be returning to St Michel by the direct route through Briec and Pleyben. Driving permit – yes, here. Ausweis freeing her from curfew regulations – here…
As long as they didn’t check the driving permit against the gazo’s registration. If they did, she’d say a grateful and kindly patient had lent it to her: she’d done so much cycling recently on her trips around the far-flung practice, and her employer was using his own gazo this evening in the opposite direction. But her poor legs…
Touch them tenderly. Give the sod a quick glimpse of one – if he looked as if that might help.
Best of all, of course, just not get stopped. If Lannuzel was right in saying they didn’t have enough troops to police the whole area thoroughly, there was a reasonably good chance one wouldn’t be.
If. It was conceivable that Jules de Seyssons was right, Lannuzel quite wrong. Looking at him across the table, wondering about that: he met her thoughtful gaze, and she switched it smilingly to Brigitte: ‘Best meal I’ve had since I arrived. Do you two get sick of chicken?’
‘Not really. We go in for barter too, of course. Anyway, come again – whenever you like. I’m always here even if Guy’s not.’
‘Yes. Please come. I leave her alone too much, I know.’ Lannuzel pushed his chair back. ‘As now – once again.’ Blue eyes on Rosie’s. He wasn’t in the least like Ben. She’d realized it when she’d been here on Wednesday, wondered how she could ever have thought he was. Missing Ben, clutching at a straw, deluding herself that she’d found some pale shadow of a substitute? Lannuzel leaned over, kissed her cheek: ‘Good luck, Suzanne. See you later… Brigitte – I’ll see you some time tomorrow morning. Not early – mid-forenoon, I’d guess.’
‘Meanwhile you’re with Diane?’
He shrugged. ‘Your own guess – if you like. I would only have said I had an engagement. Huh?’
Brigitte told Rosie, ‘Diane’s the local tart.’
‘The slut?’
‘Of course – we spoke of her—’
‘Family joke, that’s all.’ He spoke from the doorway of the staircase. ‘Makes for a believable alibi, in any case.’
‘Except if they checked they might find she’d spent the night with a Boche corporal.’ She’d said that for her brother’s benefit, speaking up so he’d hear. Murmuring to Rosie then: ‘Is he telling the truth, tonight’s going to be easy?’
‘Well – yes… Matter of fact…’ Honesty then made her qualify that: ‘There’s one bit I’m not mad about – but it’s very much his own, and he and his friends are happy with it. Know more about it than I do, too… Otherwise – given reasonably good luck—’
‘Given any luck at all—’ he was back, shrugging on his donkey-jacket – ‘it’s a cinch. Believe me.’ Stooping to kiss his sister for a second time. ‘Trust me.’ Pointing, as he straightened: ‘Mid-morning, I’ll walk in that door.’
* * *
She started out just before eight, in prettily fading light. Twenty kilometres, roughly, to Briec, but at some point before that she’d turn down to Landuda, then make a right-angle turn to Moncouar, and go sharp left there for Lestonan via Kerongués. A bit of a zigzag: perhaps forty kilometres altogether.
Brigitte looked older than her years, when they said goodbye. Rosie had warned her about the air attack at midnight, assured her that her brother wouldn’t be anywhere near it: she’d suggested: ‘Best turn in, block your ears.’ But her eyes especially: needing more reassurance than Rosie felt she could give. Nothing like this was ever a ‘cinch’. And Brigitte had already lost a child – in what must have been terrifying circumstances – had for all she knew lost her husband too, and had now to face the possibility of losing her doting brother.
Rosie chided herself: And you sometimes imagine you have problems. Driving westbound through Châteauneuf-du-Faou… Two gendarmes were strolling through the market-place, didn’t even glance at the stolen gazo as it passed the
m. Then outside the Hotel Belle Vue with its swastika banner dangling limply in the still evening air a parked Wehrmacht truck had soldiers in it and others standing around, seemingly waiting to embark. She’d been following a horse and cart at a slow walking pace, was now stopped altogether for several minutes while another cart inched by, coming this way.
Pig, she thought, sniffing. Looking then for Raoul: but it wasn’t him. She wound the window up, and lit a cigarette. Seeing more young soldiers coming: a file of them, edging around the cart and passing between it and the gazo’s bonnet to the pavement, pushing through the others who were crowding there – but sauntering, glancing around, each in turn having a good look at her. Forage-caps, not helmets: lads in their teens or at most early twenties out for a Saturday-evening jaunt.
Looking for Diane, perhaps.
Moving – at last… Around that thing, then passing the cart too: through the town and out of it southwestward. Eight-twenty: the low fireball of the sun was blinding, brilliant orange between horizontal layers of black cloud.
* * *
There weren’t any major turnings off this road, not in its early stages. After about three kilometres there was a ninety-degree bend to the right, and the road followed the course of the river then for about one kilometre. The light on the water was fantastic. Thinking of this sunset and its colours spread all over: of bombers being prepared and armed on some English airfield under the same lit sky, for instance: and at Newhaven, where before his smash-up Ben and his friends would have been waiting for it to fade. They let it get dark or darkish before they sailed, he’d explained to her, in case of being spotted by Luftwaffe reconnaissance as they put to sea; their aim was to arrive on ‘the other side’ undetected, ready to spring surprises.
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