Flawed Banner

by John Harris

  The search took several days and, as they passed, he spent his spare time in the company of Nicole. She was small and neat, with black hair, large eyes, and a good figure. At lunch time they sat opposite each other in pavement cafés drinking beer and eating enormous sandwiches. He had found a room in a hotel opposite the station where the foyer was packed with the families of officers but Nicole would have none of that and insisted on him using her flat. It was very small but there was a room, little bigger than a cupboard, with a single bed. He moved in happily.

  The dour Lorrainers, known to the French as ‘les Boches d’Est’, seemed to hold themselves aloof from the bustle of the army.

  ‘It’s just their manner,’ Nicole explained. ‘They’re supposed to be as thick as their own trees, but they’re very proud of their province. After the war of 1870 it became German, you know, but we won it back in 1918.’

  The next morning was cool following a shower during the night. Little wisps of vapour hung in the low-lying areas among the streams and pools round the Ile de Saulcy. There was a British mess in one of the steep-roofed mansions among the lime trees beyond the Ban St Martin. Producing the papers the Hannah woman had provided, Woodyatt demanded the use of the telephone and began to try every single telephone holder with the name of Montrouge. He had no luck. Trying the library once more, he discovered that Nicole had picked up a clue.

  ‘There was an old man who used to come here,’ she said. ‘I’d forgotten him because I have not seen him for some time. He liked to sit in the reference room and was always reading the newspapers. I didn’t think of him until I was going through the files and found his name. He’d demanded a book and we’d filled in a request form. His name was Montrouge.’

  He kissed her enthusiastically. ‘Where is he now?’

  She shrugged.

  ‘What was he like?’

  ‘Tall. Strong-looking. But he was old, you understand. About eighty.’

  Woodyatt produced the photograph of the man in Lucerne. ‘Would that be him?’

  ‘It might. It’s hard to say.’

  ‘Is there any means of finding out where he is now?’

  ‘There was a girl who came to talk to him occasionally. Perhaps you should try to find her.’

  ‘You’ve been a great help.’ Woodyatt smiled. ‘Let’s celebrate with dinner in the city. We can talk some more about it’.

  She studied him with interest. They had always got on well together. He was tall, straight-backed, with good features and fair hair that fell over his forehead in an intriguing way. She grinned her assent.

  She was waiting at the library when he arrived. She had been home to change and she seemed to bring a touch of spring to what had become a very dull war, charming, pretty and vivacious as she was. Woodyatt found himself almost forgetting his business there. Her hand went straight out to his and they set off among the dark streets. They ate in a restaurant where there were long tables full of soldiers who fell over themselves to flatter Nicole, teasing her, making sure there was nothing she wanted for.

  ‘I have asked my friend at the library,’ she told Woodyatt. ‘She has the name of the girl and her address.’

  Woodyatt’s heart leapt.

  ‘Her name is Dominique Sardier.’

  ‘And she’s here in Metz?’

  ‘She was but I haven’t seen her for some time. She lives in the Rue Bilot. That’s near the Ban St Martin. It’s a big house made into flats. It’s quite near my apartment. I’ll show you later as we go home.’

  He kissed her cheek and the soldiers cheered wildly. Their long tables soon grouped together to form a party and everybody started singing. Led by a Frenchman with one arm, they worked their way through Saint-Cyr, Garde à Vous, La Madelon, Les Artilleurs de Metz and other French military songs that brought thoughts of clattering hooves, iron-shod artillery wheels and brilliant uniforms.

  The young French regulars were full of life and good humour and bore none of the ill-will with which the French reservists all seemed to regard the British. And with Nicole alongside him, there was always the whiff of her perfume in Woodyatt’s nostrils, the warmth of her body against his.

  It was dark when they left the restaurant and as they walked slowly to her flat through the black-out, the darkness glowed with the firefly pin-pricks of cigarette ends. They stumbled along, arm in arm and she indicated the house where Dominique Sardier lived.

  The following morning they ate breakfast at a bakery next door to Nicole’s flat then he walked her to the library before heading for the house near the Ban St Martin. As he arrived, he saw several girls run out and head for the bus stop. Like Nicole, they were young with plenty of French chic and he wondered if one of them were the Dominique Sardier he was seeking.

  The house seemed empty but a radio was playing a tune. He traced the music to a room down the hall near the stairs where there was a door with its glass upper panels covered by a waxed paper patterned with red, white and blue squares. As he tapped on the glass, it was opened to a gap of no more than six inches. Beyond it he could see the wrinkled face of an old woman. He told her what he was seeking.

  ‘Mademoiselle Sardier,’ he said. ‘Dominique Sardier.’

  ‘She’s not here.’

  ‘Can you tell me where she works?’

  ‘She doesn’t work in Metz any more. She left.’ His heart sank. ‘When did she leave?’

  ‘January. February. About then.’

  ‘Where did she go?’

  ‘Amiens. That way.’

  Woodyatt drew a deep breath. Amiens was due north of Paris and around two hundred miles away from Metz.

  ‘Did she go alone?’

  ‘How else would she go? She wasn’t married.’

  ‘There was an old man she used to see.’

  ‘Yes, there was. I saw him once.’

  ‘Do you know if he went with her?’

  He produced the photograph of Montrouge taken by Pullinger’s agent in Switzerland. ‘Is that the man?’

  The old woman looked up at him. ‘I think it is. What’s he done? Is he a criminal?’

  Woodyatt trotted out the line he had decided on. ‘No, Madame,’ he said. ‘We think he’s heir to money in England and, since I’m in the area, I’ve agreed to try to find him. There might be a reward.’

  Her interest increased. Disappearing into her quarters, she returned with a crumpled slip of paper. ‘There you are,’ she said. ‘Dominique Sardier, Rue de Paris, Dreuil. It’s about six kilometres outside Amiens. She’ll tell you about him.’ She grinned. ‘But she won’t make you very welcome. She doesn’t like men.’

  Four

  ‘Don’t go away,’ Woodyatt said. ‘Don’t get a transfer anywhere while I’m gone.’

  Nicole laughed and he went on. ‘I’ve got to ask a few questions,’ he said. ‘That’s all.’ He hoped it would be all and that, after the questions, he could call on the Military Police and the whole thing would be over. ‘This girl you turned up did know Montrouge.’

  They closed the shutters of the flat. Nicole made coffee and they drank it as they listened to the news. All was still quiet, though there were nervous reports of patrol activity, and east of Metz a German aeroplane had been shot down. But nothing more. All things considered, it seemed a funny war.

  The following morning, Woodyatt set off for Amiens, driving across the battlefields of the First War. They bore the scars of that conflict and he saw areas that were still mutilated by trenches and shell holes, and marked with occasional memorials to the fallen. He reached Amiens during the afternoon. It was as full of troops as everywhere else and the feeling of urgency was as clear there as it had been in Metz. Picardy farmers and businessmen mixed with trim-legged shop girls and here and there you could see the red, white and black crest of the province.

  Dreuil was a small place, typical of the Somme country, with a row of small houses running along the main street. But, unlike many of the Somme villages, it had some pretensions to attractiveness. There w
ere trees and a glimpse of the river not far from the road. To the East it was possible to see the towering spire of Amiens Cathedral. He found the house without any trouble. It was small and neat, set away by forty metres of meadow from the other houses. There was a small front garden and a white door. His knock went unanswered and he assumed that Dominique Sardier had not yet returned from work. At the next house along, a woman appeared with a child hanging on to her leg. ‘She’s not here,’ she said. ‘She’s visiting relations. In Paris.’

  ‘What relations?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t know. Some uncle, I think. She’ll be back on Saturday.’

  Woodyatt was back in Metz the following day. When he walked into the library Nicole’s face lit up and that night they ate at a little restaurant near her flat. She seemed sad and he probed until he got the reason. She was worried by the war and what it would bring when it came.

  ‘I just want to be married and have children,’ she said. ‘I just want to grow old in peace.’

  The three days before he had to return to Amiens passed in an atmosphere almost of domesticity. Nicole was happy but underlying her happiness there was always an element of worry because the news from Norway had grown worse.

  ‘Perhaps the war won’t come after all,’ she said. ‘Perhaps the politicians are right and if we don’t look for it, it will go away.

  When he returned to Amiens, he waited until early evening before calling at the house in the Rue de Paris. This time he found Dominique Sardier at home. He was surprised at her appearance. He had expected someone drab and uninteresting but she seemed brisk and alert. She was tall, in her middle twenties, not pretty in the way Nicole was pretty, but with thick chestnut hair, tremendous green eyes and an excellent figure. She was puzzled by his arrival but she let him into the house. It was neatly furnished with the usual uncomfortable French chairs and an old painting or two that didn’t seem worth much. But the curtains were bright and there was a small crucifix over an old roll-top desk against the wall.

  ‘Montrouge?’ she said as he framed his question. ‘Yes, of course, I know Monsieur Montrouge. Why do you want to know?’

  Woodyatt had his answer ready. ‘We believe Monsieur Montrouge worked for the allies between 1914 and 1918,’ he said. ‘We think he might be of help again.’

  She shook her head. ‘I don’t think so,’ she said.

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘He’s my uncle.’

  ‘Your uncle?’ She seemed to be a real find.

  ‘Well, not exactly. A sort of uncle. My grandfather, Josephe Sardier, from Metz, married a Marie-Adelaide Weil, from Amiens. His sister, Charlotte, married a Georges Picard who came from Alsace, so that their daughter, Jeanne, and my father, also Josephe, were cousins.’

  He encouraged her to talk about her family.

  ‘My father was born in 1880,’ she explained. ‘I was born in 1914 just before he vanished in the great mobilisation. He was killed in 1916 at Verdun. My mother died in 1936.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  She shrugged. ‘It’s a long time ago. His cousin, Jeanne, was a little older. She was born in 1870. She married Monsieur Montrouge in 1911. I don’t think it was a love match. She spoke German because many people in Alsace and Lorraine speak German and eventually she went to work in Germany. Monsieur Montrouge was also working there. She died last year. I seem now to be his only relative. When you have nobody, even a relative by marriage is worth having.’

  She was an unusual young woman. She had a dazzling smile but at times her face became stiff and serious so that he wasn’t sure what to make of her.

  ‘Why did they leave Germany?’ Woodyatt knew the answer but he wanted to hear this woman’s version. She studied him carefully before replying.

  ‘She came some time before him,’ she said. ‘At the time the Nazis were beating up the Jews and her father was a Jew, so she probably felt it wise. I believe she and my mother were very good friends when they were young and they were always visiting each other.’

  ‘Did they go on visiting after your aunt went to live in Germany?’

  She frowned. ‘I don’t think so. But my aunt was an odd character. Intellectual. Full of strange modern ideas. Perhaps that’s why she left him. He told me it was just incompatibility. They lived in Dresden and you had to go to Berlin and then south. It was a long way.’

  ‘What about in 1914?’ he asked. ‘What happened then? Your father went into the army. What about Monsieur Montrouge?’

  She was uncertain. ‘I don’t think he served in the army at all,’ she said. ‘He was trapped in Germany by the outbreak of the war, he said, and spent the whole of it in a German camp of some sort.’

  ‘But after the war he remained in Germany.’ Woodyatt affected bewilderment. ‘I’d have thought he would have wanted to return to France.’

  ‘He got a job with the Occupying Forces.’

  ‘Doing what?’

  ‘He was some sort of teacher of languages. In 1918 in France jobs were hard to get.’

  Woodyatt pulled a face. ‘They were harder to get in Germany. The Deutsche Mark was devalued until you had to take a barrow-load of banknotes to buy a kilo of butter.’

  ‘He must have been paid from France.’ She smiled, confident of her theory. ‘Or, perhaps, even in American dollars. Then he would have been well off.’ She studied Woodyatt, her eyes steady on his and he noticed again how beautiful they were. ‘You seem very interested in my uncle. Why?’

  Woodyatt gestured. ‘We have a feeling he was a British agent prior to 1914. Perhaps that’s why he ended up a prisoner.’ It was a good answer and seemed to satisfy her.

  ‘Perhaps so,’ she agreed. ‘After the war I think he worked for a while as a correspondent for a Paris newspaper. With a special interest in what the Germans were up to. Because they were certainly getting round the Versailles agreement they made in 1919, weren’t they? If he were some sort of agent, it would explain a lot.’

  ‘Did you ever meet him at that time?’

  ‘Not until he left Germany. Besides, at that time, life was wonderful.’ For a moment her face was transformed by the memory of happiness, and it seemed to glow. ‘Though, of course,’ she went on, ‘always there was the threat of Germany. It put a blight on all those years.’

  Woodyatt remembered it only too well, the feeling that sooner or later somebody was going to have to face up to the bullies of Europe and that it might be painful.

  ‘He was in difficulties with money at first,’ she went on. ‘Later he was able to get money from investments he’d made in Switzerland. He became quite comfortably off. But about that time my aunt died. She went quite quickly.’

  ‘And Monsieur Montrouge? Where is he now?’

  She was about to answer but then she stopped dead. ‘Why?’ she asked again. ‘Why are you so very interested?’

  Woodyatt gestured. ‘There may be rewards for him. I don’t know.’ The lies came easily. But he wasn’t sure they satisfied her. ‘All I know is that I was asked to find him. My job’s Intelligence.’

  ‘Why would Intelligence be interested?’

  ‘I think they feel that, after his long stay in Germany, he might be able to help. I need to talk to him.’

  ‘Unfortunately, you can’t. He decided to go to Paris. He said he’d grown up there and wanted to return.’

  Woodyatt paused, his mind working. ‘What sort of man is he?’ he asked. ‘It’s important that I know. I have to be certain I have the right man.’

  She frowned. ‘I don’t know really what he’s like. I’ve not known him long and he’s – a little secretive.’

  She still seemed suspicious of him and he decided a little flattery might help. ‘Mademoiselle Sardier,’ he said. ‘I’m staying at the Hôtel Central near the Place Gambetta. It has an excellent restaurant. I wonder if I can ask you to have dinner with me this evening. We can continue our talk there.’

  She seemed startled and he suspected she hadn’t been asked out for a long
time.

  ‘I have a car,’ he persisted. ‘May I call for you around seven o’clock?’

  She studied him quietly then she smiled. It was dazzling. ‘I’ll look forward to seeing you,’ she said. ‘It could be very interesting.’

  She had obviously put on her best outfit – a green affair that matched her eyes – and she looked unexpectedly stunning. She had swept her hair above her head so that it showed the long column of her neck and the shape of her shoulders. He was startled at the difference in her.

  ‘Mademoiselle Sardier,’ he said. ‘You look quite splendid.’

  He handed her a bouquet of red roses he had bought near the station a few minutes before. At the time he had thought they were going to be wasted on her. Now he wasn’t so sure.

  Her eyes sparkled as she took them from him and arranged them in a vase. Against the late sunshine, they were the colour of blood.

  They drove to the hotel in the warm evening sunshine. Half of Amiens seemed to be out on the streets, British and French soldiers walking with girls, men strolling with their wives, studying the menus outside the restaurants, taking their apéritifs on the café terraces.

  The landlord and the head waiter at the hotel, both of whom obviously knew Dominique Sardier, registered the same surprise that Woodyatt had shown. And he noticed as they entered the dining room that several heads turned. She was impressive: straight, tall, her excellent features topped by the mass of chestnut hair. As Woodyatt held her chair for her, he received a magnificent smile.

  ‘Mademoiselle Sardier,’ he said again. ‘You really are very beautiful. And I’m not the only man here who’s noticed it.’

  She was clearly pleased at the compliment and he wondered why no one had remarked on her beauty before tonight.

  She seemed to guess his thoughts. ‘I am in my Sunday best,’ she explained. ‘Normally I wear simpler clothes. I am a teacher, and teachers are expected to be anonymous. I soon discovered that a teacher who wears pretty clothes and a pretty hair style attracts attention from the fathers of the children she instructs and that is something the mothers don’t like. Teachers are expected to be taken seriously.’