by John Harris
‘Don’t be silly. He’s an old man.’
‘You’re a beautiful woman.’ She blushed as he spoke. ‘If he made passes at other women, did you never wonder why he didn’t try it on with you?’
‘No.’
‘Did it never occur to you that the “others” your aunt referred to weren’t women?’
‘What else would they be?’
‘Men. Young men.’
Three
The arguing continued for the next few days: Woodyatt doggedly pursuing his theme; the old man dodging the answers; Dominique bitterly hostile again but still uncertain what to believe. Her common sense told her Woodyatt’s guess was probably right but her loyalty was still to Montrouge. She simply didn’t want to believe Woodyatt.
All the time, Woodyatt was trying to trick the old man into some sort of slip that would lead to a possible identification and eventually to a confession. But Montrouge was quick-witted and as slippery as an eel. He never gave the impression of deliberately avoiding questions but he always had answers and Woodyatt could only assume he’d been thinking about them for years. He kept him under continuous scrutiny, hoping something would identify him once and for all. He had seen him drink brandy and soda, but it seemed the only clue he was going to get. He had seen him touch his nose but the gesture could hardly have been described as the habit Sir Martin Gerrit had suggested. At times he seemed to limp. Perhaps it was nothing more than arthritis in an old man’s joints. There was no sign of the scar on his jaw but after all this time it would have been very faint. And according to Brigadier Witkins, it had never been very big anyway, while any scar on his hand seemed to have faded into the folds and creases of old age.
By this time there were rumours that a new British army was gathering on the Somme and the eastern suburbs of Paris were enduring air raids. More and more people were leaving the city. There was talk of the government moving to Tours and the Paris banks were being evacuated. At the British Embassy Woodyatt was told the Banque de France had got rid of all its gold – a third to the United States, another third to London, and the rest to Bordeaux.
‘At least,’ Montrouge said, ‘England will now have enough money to continue the war. The Dutch and the Belgians have also sent their gold to London.’
The news agencies had already gone to Tours and the Paris papers were predicting the arrival of the Germans within the week. The evacuation of the British and French forces in the North was going well, despite the loss in ships, but it was clearly now beginning to grow difficult. Marseilles had been bombed and an aircraft which had been shot down had landed on the gasworks and caused a tremendous explosion.
‘Typical of the Marseillais to overdo things,’ Montrouge said with grim sarcasm.
By this time everybody was wondering why Paris wasn’t being systematically bombed. Was it because the Germans wanted the city intact for a victory march through its streets?
‘They did it in 1871,’ Dominique said bitterly. ‘They’re obviously going to do it again.’
The waitress at the restaurant where they ate said leaflets had been picked up indicating that the Germans intended to dance in the streets on Bastille Day. Meanwhile the politicians continued to squabble, blaming each other and getting nowhere. The latest joke was that, in addition to storing tinned food, you should store chewing gum because, if you were shot up while fleeing the city, you could plug the holes in the petrol tank with it and also use it to stop your teeth chattering.
As the ships vanished from Dunkirk and the North fell silent, everybody expected the Germans to push for Rouen and Reims to isolate Paris. To Woodyatt it didn’t seem to matter which way they did it. They were quite clearly expecting the capital to drop into their laps like a ripe plum.
He was growing worried about his attempts to persuade Montrouge to leave. He couldn’t drag him, tied hand and foot, to the car. And he still hadn’t enough definite proof to demand the help Pullinger had offered. He would look a fool arriving in London with some angry old man who turned out to be someone else entirely. Yet he dare not leave him in Paris. Having found him, he daren’t leave him anywhere.
The newspapers were now reporting that the Germans were advancing up the Seine. Shops and restaurants were boarded up and the streets were deserted except for an occasional overladen motor car. The air was always full of the smell of burning and the city seemed to tremble to the rumble of the gunfire.
‘We must leave soon,’ Woodyatt told Dominique. ‘Can you get him to pack something? Tell him we’re just looking for a safer area.’
He decided to try the Embassy for news. More soldiers had arrived in trains from the North and the East and it was hard to get past. Outside the Embassy were a few British soldiers and airmen who had been cut off from their units and were trying to get information on where to go. The entrance hall was full of shouting, arguing people, many of them British civilian residents of Paris who were demanding safe passages home.
Woodyatt spent a good quarter of an hour moving among them, trying to find someone who could give him a sound appreciation of the situation. Eventually, someone remembered having heard his name and it appeared there was a message for him from Pullinger. It was a long letter. It had been addressed to army headquarters and forwarded to the Embassy. It informed him that a German refugee called Ketscher had been found who could confirm Redmond’s identity.
‘General Dornberger, head of German rocket plans,’ it continued, ‘was a friend at one time of von Rothügel. Dornberger is the leading German authority on long range ballistic missiles. We have also learned that Hermann Oberth, who proposed liquid fuel for rocket propulsion, is a Saxon and is believed to come from Meissen – which is no more than ten miles from Dresden where Rothügel is known to have lived. They also might well have known each other.’
The letter also indicated that Pullinger was still worried by the presence of a German agent in the top echelons of the civil service. ‘We discover now it’s been going on since 1925,’ he wrote. ‘It’s almost certain he was in contact with your man, because von Rothegel was running the British section of German Intelligence up to 1927. We must have him. When do you want us to lay on an escort?’
It was possible to telephone. ‘No more than two minutes,’ Woodyatt was told. ‘After that you’ll have to use the telegraph. We’ve been ordered to keep the line open for diplomatic sources.’
Pullinger sounded excited. ‘Look,’ he said. ‘Camorgis has it on reliable authority that “Charlie”, whoever he is, will be one of the people the Germans will use if it comes to peace talks.’
‘Do you think peace talks are likely?’
‘After what’s happened, Hitler’s doubtless got contingency plans.’
‘Then you’d better check all those civil-service types who’re likely to be put forward to handle the business.’
‘We can hardly do that if peace talks don’t take place.’ Pullinger sounded irritated. ‘Churchill won’t even listen to the idea. So we must know this bloody “Charlie’s” real name. Now. It could take us weeks to find him and he could do a lot of damage in that time. The situation’s very delicate.’
‘Do you imagine I don’t know?’
‘Where’s Redmond now?’
‘Here in Paris.’
‘Have you talked to him?’
‘Of course. But he isn’t exactly talking to me.’
‘See that he does and–’
The line was cut off in the middle of Pullinger’s sentence. Woodyatt smiled grimly, guessing that Pullinger would be seething.
The Embassy had little time to spare for what seemed a wild-goose chase. They were busy evacuating documents and staff. Woodyatt tried to dispatch a telegram to Pullinger giving a few details but every wire, every radio, every telephone was red-hot with messages to and from London. In the end, he sent a message by ordinary telegram via Malta. It cost him a fortune.
He finally managed to get an interview with the ambassador. He looked worn out and desperate, but t
reated Woodyatt politely, and money was advanced when Woodyatt produced the letters he had been given. Pullinger had been right. Though some of the men who had signed the papers were no longer part of the British government, their names still carried weight.
‘I don’t suppose,’ the ambassador said, ‘that you’ll get any reply to your message. I can’t see how it’ll reach you. We’re leaving. This city’s gone mad and nobody’s doing their job.’
He introduced Woodyatt to one of the under-secretaries, a man about his own age called Lord, and informed him that anything he needed would be supplied.
‘Provided,’ the ambassador said with a tired smile, ‘that it’s still possible to supply it.’
By this time the Germans had smashed all semblance of a French line and had fanned out behind on either side. Tanks roamed freely around the countryside and the huge French armies were crumbling into chaos.
As Woodyatt left the Embassy, Paris looked lovelier than ever. The evening sky was pale green and orange over St Germain des Prés and the place was calm and still. The streets were shadowed and empty-looking, though there were cars parked near doorways and people kept appearing with packages and suitcases.
A few policemen lurked at alley ends, alert for fifth columnists spreading defeatism. There had been a lot of bold talk from the French government and an announcement: ‘Pas de rupture de front, nous avons tenu, malgré l’infiltration entre les points d’appui.’ There had been no break in the front. They had held on, despite the infiltration between strong points. They were still fantasising about a new offensive, believing the line Weygand was said to have formed would hold. Woodyatt didn’t swallow a word of it and it was obvious nobody else did either. Why was there to be a big prayer meeting at the Sacré Coeur if people weren’t hoping for a miracle?
The old man had gone to bed when he returned to 81, Rue de Vanves.
‘He insists he won’t leave,’ Dominique said. ‘He says that when he goes, he’ll go on his own and in his own good time.’
She was on the verge of tears. As Woodyatt touched her shoulder, she looked up at him with such despair he automatically put his arms round her and she leaned wearily against him.
‘He’s the only person I have.’ The words came out in a sort of sigh.
Then, as though ashamed of her show of weakness, she snapped upright again and pushed him away. ‘I’ll try again tomorrow,’ she said.
Montrouge stayed in bed late the following morning. Woodyatt thought it was a deliberate ploy to avoid questions. Dominique took him coffee and through the closed door Woodyatt could hear her talking to him.
During the afternoon, she said she had managed to prevail on the old man to allow her to pack a few clothes for him.
‘He put other things in, too,’ she said. ‘And he locked the case. I think they were chiefly papers.’
Woodyatt had just crammed the cases into the back of the car and locked it in one of the garages which occupied the ground floor round the courtyard when the sirens went.
‘Casques et masques!’ The concierge scuttled out, wearing a helmet and yelling for everyone to have their gasmasks ready.
They struggled to get Montrouge to the air-raid shelter. It was only at the end of the street but he was slow and insisted on putting on a long overcoat that came down to his ankles.
‘Shelters are cold,’ he insisted. ‘Besides, what does it matter? I’m too old to worry what happens to me.’
There was a sustained burst of anti-aircraft fire and they could hear the shell fragments tinkling to the road. When the ‘All Clear’ sounded they saw smoke rising near the Pont Mirabeau and someone said the Germans had hit the Citroën works and a block of flats near the bridge. On his way to the Embassy to find out if there had been any answer to his message, Woodyatt saw a bombed house – its outer wall gone, it was just a mountain of debris in the street with curtains and bedclothes flapping. It looked like a giant doll’s house with the front open.
He had decided to give Montrouge another two days then drag him to the car and leave whether he liked it or not. Though the Channel ports were all closed by this time, ships were still leaving for England from St Nazaire and Bordeaux.
The French were clearly giving up. Despite the big talk from the politicians and generals, morale had disintegrated.
There was even outrage among the working class of Paris who had been told that if they abandoned the city they could be regarded as deserters. Having watched the wealthy leaving in droves, it was something they weren’t prepared to accept.
There was a tremendous battle going on in the North. Weygand had announced that two thousand tanks had been thrown forward to defeat the Germans.
‘It will come to nothing,’ Montrouge said flatly and for once Woodyatt believed him.
The local restaurant was crowded, as if those who remained in the neighbourhood were determined to get the last out of the dying city. They had reached their sweet course when the air-raid siren went again and the proprietor appeared, waving his arms.
‘The cellar,’ he said, indicating a door behind the bar. ‘We have wine. We shall not be unhappy.’
They pushed down the stairs to a dusty vaulted room which contained dozens of bottles and there they sat in silence, feeling the earth shake as the bombs exploded. The proprietor offered free wine but it was of poor quality, and he noticeably didn’t forget to collect the price of the meals that had been eaten upstairs. Sitting in the gloom, Woodyatt wondered what had happened to Nicole. By this time she was probably in Hyères. Poor Nicole! Her husband was probably fleeing for his life. Or captured. Or dead even.
It was nearly midnight when the ‘All Clear’ went. Montrouge had fallen asleep and for a moment Woodyatt envied him. Age had its advantages.
As the siren died away, there was one last explosion. It was big and it sounded close. Somebody laughed and suggested that the Germans knew where they were. Pushing Montrouge up the stairs, they headed into the street. In the darkness the smell of smoke was strong and the sapeurs-pompiers were rushing past with their fire engines.
The Rue de Vanves was barricaded against the public and Woodyatt was horrified to see that Number 81 had cascaded into a pile of bricks, timbers, slates and glass. The front of the building had collapsed and curtains were flapping in the breeze. A piano rested among the rubble, and the rescue workers were just carrying a body away on a stretcher.
‘Holy Mother of God,’ Dominique whispered, crossing herself.
Montrouge stared at the wreckage almost as if it didn’t concern him. Woodyatt edged forward. The garages had the whole weight of the building on top of them. The doors had burst outwards in splintered planks and he could just see their car under tons of rubble.
‘Was this the last?’ he asked one of the fireman.
‘Sure.’ The fireman was heaving at a piece of timber. ‘Delayed action. Must have been half an hour after they’d gone.’
‘Was it definitely a bomb?’
‘It wasn’t a firework.’
‘An aerial bomb?’
‘What other kind would it be?’
‘If the Germans can drop parachutists dressed as nuns, they can plant bombs. To make people clear out.’
A school down the street had been opened as a shelter and they led the old man there. He sat in silence, clutching his stick, staring ahead, deep in thought.
As daylight came, they heard over the wireless that the battle in the North had reached a critical stage. The enemy was near the Marne and pushing towards Pontoise. Gunfire could be heard already.
Paris remained strangely calm, although hundreds of luggage-laden cars left for the South during the day and, in the evening, the streets were deserted except for the armed guards on government buildings and metro stations. The scent of resin and the smell of burning trees filled the air as if the woods to the North were on fire.
Wondering if it would be possible to leave by rail, Woodyatt tried the Gare de Lyon but it was surrounded by a yelling mob of
people all fighting to get in. The interior was packed, the crowds outside sitting on the pavement. The smell was disgusting. Babies screamed and old people sat with their heads bowed wearily. Among the seething mass the police were growing desperate. There was no food and no milk, and the people who had been there all night were demanding that the neighbouring shops should be forced to open. The sick were stretched on luggage trolleys with a few Sisters of Charity trying to help them, their faces moist in the humid air.
The Gare d’Austerlitz was the same and more families were still arriving. One woman appeared with five trunks, three suitcases, two hatboxes and a pug dog, and immediately became stuck. Dumped down by a taxi, she couldn’t get on a train, but she couldn’t move her luggage on her own, and dared not leave it because the Paris underworld was taking full advantage of the confusion.
Even as Woodyatt watched, a ferret of a man in a muffler snatched one of her cases. She screamed and in a moment the whole area was involved in a noisy scuffle. Police whistles screeched and two men in uniform appeared, swinging lead-lined capes to clear a path. For no good reason fists began to fly and the shouting increased as the mob of people surged backwards and forwards. Struggling to get clear, Woodyatt found himself face to face with the man who had started it all. He was carrying the case he had stolen.
‘That’s the man,’ Woodyatt said, closing in on him. A knife appeared and, without thinking, Woodyatt swung his fist and the man went down.
As the police came up, full of congratulations, Woodyatt could only feel surprise. He had never considered himself a man of action.
The police were pleased and escorted him with the thief to an office in the forecourt of the station. He was questioned and then allowed to go. Free from the crowd, he managed to get inside the station by climbing a gate. A harassed official told him the lines were constantly being bombed. As a result there was no timetable and, anyway, there wasn’t an inch of room on the trains. With escape by rail clearly out of the question, Woodyatt began to try garages in the hope of hiring or even buying a car. But nothing that would move was available.